THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BREVIARY     TREASURES 


Odes  of  Anacreon 
Anacreontics   * 

And    Other   Selections   from   the 
Greek   Anthology    tjf      »Jf      tft 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED  BY 

NATHAN   HASKELL  DOLE 

BOSTON 


Copyright,  1903 
BY  NATHAN  HASKELL  DOLE 


College 
Library 

PA 
3865 

£5 
1903  b 


INTRODUCTION 

COWLEY,  Moore,  and  others,  who  have 
made  graceful  and  buoyant  paraphrases  of 
Anacreontic  imitations,  have  obscured  the  real 
Anacreon.  He  is  a  legend,  a  myth.  The 
few  actual  remains  of  his  verse,  though  so 
delicate,  graceful,  and  yet  strong,  have  in- 
spired no  modern  poets.  They  have  been 
content  to  imitate  his  imitators.  What  he 
really  wrote,  his  real  character,  even  the  de- 
tails of  his  life,  are  difficult  to  disentangle  from 
the  fancies  which  ages  have  spun  around  his 
name. 

From  the  few  fragments  remaining,  we  can 
partly  reconstitute  the  man.  He  is  commonly 
regarded  as  the  poet  laureate  of  the  wine- 
cup,  and  yet  he  commends  five  parts  of  water 
and  three  of  wine  —  a  very  temperate  mix- 
ture. He  spoke  out  his  disgust  for  those  who 
let  their  passion  for  the  stimulus  of  the  flowing 
bowl  lead  them  to  neglect  the  muses  and  talk 
of  quarrels  and  tearful  war.  He  despised  sot- 
tishness  as  barbaric,  and  found  the  pleasure  of 
the  wine-cup  in  its  quickening,  and  not  stupe- 
fying, the  wits.  His  extant  poetry  is  marked 
by  wonderful  grace,  refinement,  and  spon- 
taneity. In  his  own  day  it  was  regarded  as 
faultless  of  its  kind,  and  yet  never  laboured. 

i 


He  is  known  to  have  written  five  books  of 
elegies,  epigrams,  and  other  short  poems.  He 
was  a  satirist,  and,  above  all,  he  was  a  writer 
of  songs.  Bournouf  speaks  of  "  sa  gr&ce  in- 
Jinie  et  fa  tiger  etc  cbarmante"  E.  S.  Farnell 
declares  that  he  "was  a  hater  of  all  things 
unrefined  and  excessive."  Plato  called  him 
"the  wise." 

His  reputation  is  shown  by  the  court  paid 
him  by  the  kings  of  his  day.  In  540  B.  c. 
the  Persians  captured  his  native  city,  Teos, 
and  he  fled  with  the  majority  of  the  towns- 
people to  Abdera,  in  Thrace,  where  he  is 
said  to  have  taken  a  prominent  part  in  organ- 
ising the  colony.  But  he  was  not  there  long. 
He  went  to  Samos,  and  lived  under  the  pa- 
tronage of  Polycrates,  whose  tyrannical  will 
he  may  have  tempered.  It  is  said  that  when 
Oroites,  Satrap  of  Sardis,  once  went  to  see 
the  tyrant,  he  found  him  in  the  men's  apart- 
ment talking  with  the  Teian  poet.  Another 
story  —  probably  a  legend,  however  —  states 
that  Polycrates  presented  him  with  five  talents, 
but  that  Anacreon  returned  the  money  after 
two  nights,  declaring  that  it  had  kept  him 
awake,  wondering  what  he  should  do  with 
it  ;  for  riches,  he  remarked,  were  not  worth 
the  care  they  cost. 

After  Oroites  had  captured  and  crucified 
Polycrates,  in  522,  Hipparchus,  who  was 

ii 


then  ruling  at  Athens,  sent  a  fifty-oared  galley 
to  fetch  the  famous  poet  to  his  court.  There 
he  became  intimate  with  Simonides  of  Keos 
and  Lasos  of  Hermione,  teacher  of  Pindar. 
Anacreon  took  part  in  the  Panathenaic  festi- 
vals, and  was  universally  admired.  The  con- 
spiracy of  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton  broke 
out  in  514.  Anacreon  escaped,  according  to 
the  legend,  —  for  it  is  evidently  a  legend,  — 
returned  to  his  native  Teos,  and  died  there 
at  the  age  of  eighty-five,  choked  by  a  grape- 
seed.  It  is  more  probable  that  he  went  to 
Thessaly,  to  the  court  of  Echecratides.  He 
was  undoubtedly  the  poet  of  courts,  but, 
with  our  slight  knowledge  of  him,  it  is  hardly 
safe  to  deny  him  virtues.  Plato  would  then 
have  been  far  from  praising  him  with  such 
high-sounding  words. 

The  present  volume  contains  the  best  that 
is  left  of  AnacreonT  The  translations,  which 
are  for  the  first  time  put  into  English  verse, 
make  no  pretence  to  follow  the  original  meter. 
They  simply  follow,  as  closely  as  possible, 
the  thought  of  the  Greek,  and  are  cast  into 
a  semi-metrical  form,  though  in  some  instances 
they  might  be  fairly  called  verse.  These  de- 
lightfully fresh  and  graceful  fragments  must 
ever  make  the  lover  of  poetry  regret  that  so 
few  such  flowers  have  been  rescued  from 
before  the  scythe  of  Time. 

ill 


The  genuine  is  supported  with  a  few  ex- 
amples of  the  Anacreontics,  which  for  many 
years  were  supposed  to  be  genuine,  but  are 
now  regarded  as  spurious,  and  yet  are  inter- 
esting as  having  been  inspired  by  the  Teian. 
These  again  are  supplemented  by  a  number 
of  charming  lyrics  from  other  poets  with 
whom  he  was  associated,  and  from  Sappho, 
whom  the  poetic  legend  asserts  Anacreon 
loved. 

The  little  volume  is  really  a  bouquet  of 
Greek  blossoms,  a  little  Anacreontic  anthol- 
ogy, in  which  the  Greek  ideas  of  love  and 
wine  are  especially  emphasised.  In  this  re- 
spect it  has  literary  unity  and  interest  that 
will  assuredly  give  it  a  welcome  among  those 
that  love  real  poetry,  the  poetry  that  has 
stood  the  test  of  time. 

The  translations  are  by  various  poets,  and, 
in  some  instances,  two  or  more  versions  of 
the  same  original  are  printed  together.  This 
accounts  for  some  variation  in  the  spelling  of 
proper  names,  some  authorities  using  the 
Latin  form,  others  a  stricter  mode  of  trans- 
literation. Both  methods  have  their  advo- 
cates and  their  advantages.  But  on  the  whole 
the  Greek  spelling,  though  sensible,  seems  to 
savour  slightly  of  pedantry  and  affectation. 

N.   H.   D. 


iv 


THE   DREAM 

In  a  dream  unto  me  came 

Anacreon,  of  Teian  fame. 

He  accosted  me,  and  I 

Ran  up  to  him  lovingly, 

And  my  arms  about  him  threw. 

Old  he  was,  but  fair  to  view, 

Fair,  a  lover  of  the  vine ; 

His  stained  lip  yet  breathed  of  wine. 

Falteringly  he  seemed  to  tread ; 

(Love  his  trembling  footsteps  led ;) 

Crowned  was  his  brow,  and  he 

Held  the  garland  out  to  me. 

Of  Anacreon  it  breathed  : 

Straight  my  forehead  (fool  !)  I  wreathed ; 

And  from  that  time  till  to-day 

I  by  love  am  plagued  alway. 

—  Incerti  Autoris  de  Anacreonte* 


rs    * 


THE   BOWL   OF   SONG 

Sweet  the  song  Anacreon  sings, 

Sweet  notes  flow  from  Sappho's  strings : 

Pindar's  strains,  their  sweets  among, 

Add,  to  crown  the  bowl  of  song. 

Such  a  triple  charm  would  sure 

Dionysus'  lips  allure ; 

Paphos'     sleek  -  skinned     queen     would 

deign, 
Or  Love's  self,  the  cup  to  drain. 

It  is  no  use  to  turn  the  mind  to  evils ; 
We  shall  find  no  gain,  O  Bacchus,  if  we 

worry ; 

And  the  best  and  only  remedy 
Is  to  fetch  the  wine  and  drink  it ! 

—  Alcaeus,  by  N.  H.  D. 


TOWOV/MU  <r', 

£avQr)  TTO.I  Aios,  dy/oiW 


r)  KOV  vvv  CTTI  A.T)Oaiov 
8ivrj<ri 

av8p£>v  etTKaropas  iroXiv 
''  ov  yap 


•AYTAPKEIA 


*Eyo)  S'  ovr'  av  ' 
/3ovXoifJLr)V  /cepas,  ovr'  crea 


TO  ARTEMIS 

I  call  to  thee,  O  Artemis, 
Huntress  of  fleeting  deer, 
Mistress  of  savage  beasts, 
Fair  daughter  of  Zeus  ! 
Somewhere  beside  the  streams 
Of  eddying  Lethaios  now 
Thou  sittest  joyfully 
With  eyes  fixed  on  a  town 
Of  gallant-hearted  men  — 
For  those  thou  shepherdest 
Are  law-abiding  citizens. 


MODERATE   DESIRES 

The  wonder-horn  of  Amalthea 
I  have  no  wish  to  own ; 
Nor  would  I  ask  for  cycled  years, 
Not  even  as  king  of  Tarshish  land  ! 


*EI3   AIONYSON 


,  <5  Sa/ioXi/s  *E/3 

KUl 

irop<f>vpfj  T'  ' 

uv[Jiirai£ov<riv,  firurrptycat  8* 
v\l/i)\lav  Kopvffras  opewv, 
yovvovfjia.1  ore'  <rv 

'  ^/u-Tv,  KfxapurfJLevrjs  8' 

eiraxovciv. 
8'  aya0os  yevev 
TOV  e/xov  8'  e/xor*, 
cS  Aewvcre  8f 


*EIS   HAIAA   TINA 


fl  irai  irapOfviov  jSXeirwv, 

(TU   8'   OV 

OVK  etws,  OTI  T^s 


10 


TO  DIONYSUS 

O    King,'  with    whom    the    conqueror 

Love 

And  all  the  dark-eyed  nymphs 
And  radiant  Aphrodite  sport, 
Who  o'er  the  lofty  mountain-tops 
Dost  range  —  I  call  upon  thee  ! 
Be  well-disposed  and  come  to  us. 
Oh,  heed  my  prayer,  thy  favour  grant ! 
And  be  a  genial  counsellor 
To  my  dearest  Cleobulus  ; 
O  Dionysus,  make  him  thy  friend. 


LOVE   UNHEEDED 

Boy,  who  hast  a  maiden's  look, 
Thee  I  seek  in  vain  to  win. 
Thou  'It  not  heed  me,  unaware 
That  thou  rulest  my  very  soul  ! 


fig 


II 


KPY2OKOMH2 


.pj7  STJVTC  fie  irop<f>vprj 
(3aX\<av  xpwoKO/xi;s  *Epa>s 


17  8  ,  eerriv  yap  air  CUKTITOV 

/u.ev 
ACUKT)  yap, 

?rpos  8'  aAAov  Tiva  XO 


MEI2   nOSIAHIQN 

Meis  at 


8'  v 
,  ftapv  8*  aypiot 


12 


A   LESBIAN   MAIDEN 

Eros  with  golden  hair 

Flings  again  his  rosy  ball 

For  a  challenge  :  "  With  a  fair 

Youthful  maiden  who  doth  wear 

Broidered  sandals,  come  and  sport !  " 

But  the  maiden,  whom  report 

Brings  from  Lesbos  nobly  founded, 

Treats  my  offer  with  despite, 

For  my  hair  is  snowy  white, 

And  she  gazes  love-astounded 

At  another  whom  I  will  not  name  at  all 


A    TEMPEST 

It  is  now  Poseidon's  month. 
Heavy  with  water  are  the  clouds 
And  angry  showers  crash  heavily  ! 


*E®EAOI  A'  'HAY2I'  'AAAO2 
'EXEIN 


Hpum^ra  fi€v  Irpiov  Xeirrov  fUKpov  a 
otvov  8'  C^CTTIOV  KaSov,  vvv  8'  d/3pa>s  epoctrcrai' 
Sa  rrj  <f>i\rj  Kwxawv  iraiS*  an 


'BIS    KAEYBOYAON 


/u,ev  ytoy    eptw, 
CTTi/iatvo/xou, 
e  Sto<r/ce(t). 


HETPA    AEYKAAO2 

Ap$ets  Srjvr'  cwro  Acv/caSos 


es  TroAtoi/  KV/xa  KoXvfiftS)  p.tOv(av  courrt. 


A   BOOK    OF   VERSES    UNDER- 
NEATH  THE   BOUGH 

I  have  eaten  the  mid-day  meal  of  honey- 
cakes  broken  fine  j 

I  have  gayly  drained  a  flask  of  generous 
roseate  wine  j 

And  now  on  the  graceful  harp  I  daintily 
thrum  the  strings, 

Making  merry  with  song  for  thee,  O 
dainty  maiden  mine ! 

CLEOBULUS 

'T  is  Cleobulus  whom  I  love  j 
'T  is  Cleobulus  I  am  mad  for, 
Cleobulus  alone  I  see  ! 

THE   LEUCADIAN   CLIFF 

Once  more  I  leap 

From  the  Leucadian  cliff 

\nd  drunk  with  passion  - , 

I  plunge  into  the  surging  billow  !  \i 


'APTEMONA 


7rCp«op?7TOS  'ApTC/itDV 

wptv  /to/  e^wv, 


KOLL    vtvovs  do-rpayaXous 

V  OKTt,   KOt  \{/l\OV  TTf.pl 

ir\evpfjo-i  SfpfJi'  rjei 
K)/7r\trrov  eiAv/xa  KCIKT)? 
,  a.pro7r<a\icriv 


Ae'tov  6  Trovr/pos  'Aprc/u-wv, 

/Stov 
TroAAa  /A€v  ev  Sovpi 

TroAAa  8'  ev 
iroAAa  8e  vairov 


fi.acm.yi. 

T* 

)v  S'  CTTtySatva  crartveW 
<popf<av 
Koi  <TKta8i- 


16 


A   HATED   RIVAL 

Indeed  to  fair  Eurypyle 
The  ill-famed  Artemon  is  dear ! 
Erstwhile  he  wore  a  shabby  garb  — 
A  turban  tightly  wound  around  his  head 
And  wooden  earrings  in  his  ears 
And  round  his  ribs  the  bald  hide  of  an  ox, 
The  filthy  covering  of  a  shabby  shield. 
This  good-for-nothing  Artemon 
Consorting  then  with  cooks  and  prosti- 
tutes, 

Picked  up  a  fraudulent  livelihood ; 
His  neck  was  often  fastened  to  the  stocks 
And  often  to  the  torturing  wheel ; 
About    his    back    the    whip-lash    often 

curled ; 

His  beard  and  hair  were  rudely  plucked. 
But  now  he  mounts  his  chariot, 
This  son  of  Kyke,  decked  with  golden 

rings, 

And  like  a  woman  bears  aloft 
A  sunshade  made  of  ivory  ! 


MAFAAH    KAI  "HBH 


8'  eiKocri  A.v86v 

e^wv,  w  Aevicacrre,  ox»  8' 


IIPOS    OAYMHON 

Avarrero/Liat    817    irpos  "O\vp.Trov   7TTcpvyc<r<rt 
8ta  TOV  "^EptDT*'  ou  yap  C/AOI  Traiy  eOeXci  crvvriftav. 


,  6s  /t'  ecriScuv  yei'aov 
xpva~o<f)afvvti)v  irrepvytav  aifrats 


18 


JOY   OR   YOUTH 

O  Leucastis,  I  play 

Upon  a  Lydian  harp  — 

A  noble  harp  of  twenty  strings  — 

And  thou  art  in  thy  youthful  prime ! 


AN  EASY   DEATH 

Up  to  Olympus  high 
On  nimble  wings  I  fly 
Because  of  love  !     And  why  ? 
'T  is  that  a  charming  boy 
Refuses  now  to  join  me  in  my  joy  ! 

And  when  he  saw  how  gray 

My  beard,  and  me  so  old 

Eros    himself  with    dazzling  wings  of 

gold 
Flew  like  a  breeze  away. 


•ANAKPEQN  TEPON 

Ilo/Xiot  fifv  Tjfuv  TjS-rj 

Kp6ra<f}OL  Kaprj  re  XCUKOV, 
yapifxrva.  8'  ovKfd'  rjflrj 

irapa,  yypdXtoi.  8'  oSovres. 
yXvuepov  8'  oiiKtri  iroAAos 

PIOTOV  ^povos  Xe\ci7TToi* 


OafJM  Tdprapov 
'A/'Seco  yap  €<rTi  Setvos 

^  8'  es  av 
*  /cat  yap  ITOI/AOV 
p.r) 


•ANAKPEQN   HOIHTHS 

"E/xe  yap  veoi  Xoycov  ei- 

voca  TratScs  av  (friXoiev* 
Xapievra  fiev  yap 
8'  olSa 


20 


DREAD    OF   DEATH 

Gray  are    my  temples  long  since   and 

snowy  my  hair; 
Gracious  youth  has   departed;   old  are 

my  teeth. 
Brief  is  the  space  of  sweet  life  that  is 

left  to  me  now. 
Therefore  I  often  weep  in  fear  of  the 

tomb, 

Knowing   how   frightful    the    deep   re- 
cesses of  Hell, 
Grievous  the  road  that  leads  down  to  its 

depths :  for  Fate 
Takes  from  the  man  that  descends  it  all 

power  to  return. 

IF   ONLY! 

Verily  the  young  would  love  me 
For  what  I  should  say  ; 
For  I  sing  in  graceful  accents, 
I  can  sweetly  talk. 


x\ 

I 


21 


COI   'ABAKIZOMENOI 


*Eyu>  $€  fiure 
iravras,  o<roi  x&wovs  c^ovcri 
KOI  KoAcTrovs1  p.e(idjQr)Kd  <r',  w 


'YAOP    TE    KAI    'OIN02 


p'  vScop,  <^ep'  oTvov, 


HO0OS   0ANATOY 


*Airo  /xot  davfiv  yevoir 

av  yap  av 
Xwrts  f-K  TTOVWV  yevoir' 

ovSaua  ToivSe. 


22 


ANACREON'S   LIKES 

And  as  for  me,  I  hate 

All  those  that  have  a  temper  primitive 

And  harsh.     But  thee,  Megistes,  have  I 

found 
Childlike  and  gentle. 


A   BOXING  MATCH 

Boy,  bring  water,  bring  the  wine, 
Bring  me  crowns  of  fragrant  flowers, 
Fetch  them  hither,  for  F  d  fain 
Try  a  boxing-match  with  Love  ! 

DEATH   THE   ONLY   ESCAPE 

Oh,  would  that  I  might  die  ! 

For  otherwise  is  no  release 

From  all  these  troubles  torturing  me, 

No  other  way  of  peace  ! 


MeyaAw  8rjvre  ft? 

Sxrre 
TreAejca, 

8'  eAovo-ev  cv 


'ANAKPEIiN   METPIOHOTH5 


"Aye  817,  <j>ep'  yfjuv,  <a  Traf, 
ajiwrriv 
TO.  fjv  Sac' 
•U&ITO?,  ra  irevre  8'  otvov 

,  tos  dw/8pioTa>s 
diva 


Aye  S^VTC 

iraraya)  re 

V  7ro(rtv  ira/j'  o?va> 
,  dAAa 
ev  V 


LOVE  AS   A  SMITH 

And  like  a  smith 

Has  Eros  smitten  me 

Upon  his  anvil, 

Then  plunged  me  in  a  stream 

Of  mountain-water  icy  cold. 


A   REASONABLE   REVEL 

Come,  boy,  bring  a  generous  bowl ! 
Let  me  drink  a  mighty  rouse, 
Pouring  in  ten  parts  of  water, 
Pouring  in  five  parts  of  wine, 
So  that  I  once  more  may  revel 
In  a  frenzy,  free  from  madness. 

Come  now,  leaving  din  and  shouting, 
Cease  from  Scythian  modes  of  revel. 
Let  us  drink  in  decent  order, 
Singing  lovely  songs  the  while ! 


'AAAMA2TON   KOPHN 


IlwAe  ®pr)Kir],  Ti  017  p.€ 

OfJ.fJ.a.(TLV 


/u.'  ovSev  etStVat  ao<f)6v  ; 


i<r6i  rot 

TOV  \a\ivov 
VUJ.S  8 

afj.<f>l  TfOfjara  8p6fwv. 


vvv  oe  Aet/iwvas  re  (36<TKCtu 
Kov<j)d  TC 


yap    irirocrfiprjv 


26 


AN   UNTAMED   MAIDEN 

Thracian     filly,    wherefore     dost    thou 

coyly  eye  me  ? 

Wherefore  dost  thou  pitilessly  fly  me  ? 
Think'st  thou  not  I  know  a  thing  or 

two  ? 
Let  me  tell  thee,  I  would  put  on  thee  a 

bridle, 
And  with   reins   in   hand   would    deftly 

guide  thee 
Round  the  farthest  pillar  of  the  course. 

Now    thou    grazest     o'er     the     grassy 

meadows, 
Curvetting    and    prancing    dost    thou 

chase  the  shadows, 
For  thou  hast  no  overmastering  rider 
To  control  thee  with  the  skilful  rein. 


So* 


•EPOS  'ABPOS 


Tov  *Epu>Ta  yap  rov  dfipov 
fipvovra.  /urpats 

af.l8f.LV 

yap  dfdv  Swoon;?, 
KCU 


TAXYMOPOS  ' 


re  Siyvre  KOVK  epai 
KOU  /uaivofuu  KOV  fj.aivop.ai. 


28 


I  will  sing  of  dainty  Eros, 
Decked  with  many-colored  garlands  : 
He  is  master  of  the  Immortals, 
He  is  victor  over  men  ! 


FALLING    IN    AND     OUT     OF 
LOVE 


Once  again  I  love  and  love  not ; 
I  am  wild  with  passion 
Then  repent  my  madness  ! 


He  that  is  minded  to  fight 

Now  let  him  fight 

For  the  time  is  at  hand ! 


29 


MT^  o'   OXTT€  KVfW.  7TOVTIOV 

AoAo£e,  rfj 


'API2TOKAEIAH2 

AXKifuav   <r'    wptcrroK\fi8fi}j    Trputrov    ot/cret' 
,  auvvtav 


UNRESTRAINED   CONVIV- 
IALITY 

Do  not  like  the  ocean  wave 

Wildly  rave, 
While  with  loudly-talking  Gastrodore 

You  drain 

Once  again 
And  o'er  and  o'er 

The    cup    with    which    the    household 
guardians  you  adore ! 


THE   LOSS   OF   A   HERO 

First  of  all  my  gallant  friends, 

Oh  Aristocleides,  thee  I  mourn, 

For  thou  didst  lose  thy  fresh  young  life 

In  warding  slavery  from  our  native  land  ! 


I. 

THE   LUTE 

i. 

Of  Atreus'  sons  fain  would  I  write ; 

And  fain  of  Cadmus  would  I  sing ; 
My  lute  is  set  on  Love's  delight, 

And  only  Love  sounds  every  string. 

Of  late  my  lute  I  altered  quite, 

Both  frets  and  strings  for  tunes  above ; 
I  sung  of  fierce  Alcides'  might ; 

My   lute  would    sound   no  tune  but 

Love. 

Wherefore,  ye  worthies  all,  farewell ; 
No  tune  but  Love  my  lute  can  tell. 
—  A.  w.  (1602). 

ii. 

Of  the  Atrides  I  would  sing, 
Of  the  wandering  Theban  king ; 


But  when  I  my  lute  did  prove 
Nothing  it  would  sound  but  Love. 
I  new  strung  it  and  to  play 
Hercules'  labours  did  essay  ; 
But  my  pains  I  fruitless  found ; 
Nothing  it  but  Love  would  sound. 
Heroes  then  farewell,  my  lute 
To  all  strains  but  love  is  mute. 

—  STANLEY. 


in. 

I  '11  sing  of  Heroes,  sing  of  Kings ; 
In  mighty  Numbers,  mighty  Things, 
Begin,  my  Muse ;  but  lo  the  Strings 
To  my  great  Song  rebellious  prove ; 
The  Strings  will  sound  of  naught 

Love. 

I  broke  them  all,  and  put  on  New ; 
'T  is  this  or  nothing  sure  will  do. 
These  sure  (said  I)  will  me  obey ; 
These  sure  Heroic  Notes  will  play. 


but 


33 


<£> 


Straight  I  began  with  thundering  Jove, 
And  all  the  Immortal  Powers  but  Love. 
Love   smiled,  and    from   my  enfeebled 

Lyre 

Came  gentle  Ayres,  such  as  inspire 
Melting  Love  and  soft  Desire. 
Farewell  then  Heroes,  farewell  Kings, 
And  mighty  Numbers,  mighty  Things ; 
Love  tunes  my  Heart  just  to  my  Strings. 

—  COWLEY. 


II. 
BEAUTY 

i. 

To  all  that  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven, 
Some  boon  of  strength  has  Nature  given. 
When  the  majestic  bull  was  born, 
She  fenced  his  brow  with  wreathed  horn. 
She  armed  the  courser's  foot  of  air, 
And  winged  with  speed  the  panting  hare. 


She  gave  the  lion  fangs  of  terror, 
And,  on  the  ocean's  crystal  mirror, 
Taught  the  unnumbered  scaly  throng 
To  trace  their  liquid  path  along ; 
While  for  the  umbrage  of  the  grove, 
She  plumed  the  warbling  world  of  love. 
To  man  she  gave  the  flame  refined, 
The  spark  of  heaven  —  a  thinking  mind  ! 
And  had  she  no  surpassing  treasure 
For  thee,  oh  woman  !  child  of  pleasure  ? 
She  gave  thee  beauty,  shaft  of  eyes, 
That  every  shaft  of  war  outflies  ! 
She  gave  thee  beauty  —  blush  of  fire, 
That  bids  the  flames  of  war  retire  ! 
Woman  !  be  fair,  we  must  adore  thee ; 
Smile,  and  a  world  is  weak  before  thee ! 

—  MOORE. 

n. 

The  bull  by  nature  hath  its  horns, 
The  horse  his  hoofs,  to  daunt  their 
foes; 


35 


The  light-foot  hare  the  hunter  scorns ; 
The  lion's  teeth  his  strength  disclose. 

The    fish,   by    swimming,    'scapes    the 
weel; 

The  bird,  by  flight,  the  fowler's  net ; 
With  wisdom  man  is  armed  as  steel ; 

Poor  women  none  of  these  can  get. 

What  have  they  then  ?  —  fair  Beauty's 

grace, 

A  two-edged  sword,  a  trusty  shield ; 
No  force  resists  a  lovely  face, 

Both  fire  and  sword  to  Beauty  yield. 
—  A.  w.  (1602). 

HI. 

Kind  Nature  horns  to  bulls  decreed, 
And    armed    with    hoofs    the    mettled 

steed. 

She  form'd  for  speed  the  timid  hare, 
The  lion's  yawning  jaws  for  war : 


Ordained  the  fish  in  streams  to  rove, 
And  winged  the  songster  of  the  grove : 
Courage  and  thought  on  man  bestowed  ; 
But  woman  yet  was  unendowed  : 
What  gives  she  her?     Those  peerless 

charms, 

Which  more  than  equal  warrior's  arms : 
That  beauty,  which  by  all  adored, 
Subdues,  at  once,  both  fire  and  sword. 

—  COWLEY. 


III. 
ON   EROS 

i. 

Cupid  abroad  was  lated  in  the  night ; 
His  wings  were  wet  with  ranging  in 

the  rain ; 
Harbour  he  sought,  to  me  he  took  his 

flight, 


37 


J!V 


To  dry  his  plumes.  I  heard  the  boy 
complain ; 

I  oped  the  door  and  granted  his  de- 
sire; 

I  rose  myself  and  made  the  wag  a  fire. 

Prying  more  narrow  by  the  fire's  flame, 
I    spied    his    quiver   hanging    at    his 

back; 
Doubting  the  boy  might  my  misfortune 

frame, 
I  would  have  gone  for  fear  of  further 

wrack; 
But  what  I  feared,  did  me,  poor  wretch, 

betide, 
For  forth  he  drew  an  arrow  from  his 

side. 

He  pierced  the  quick  and  I  began  to 

start ; 

A  pleasing  wound,  but  that  it  was 
too  high. 


His  shaft  procured  a  sharp,  yet  sugared 

smart ; 
Away   he    flew,   for   now  his  wings 

were  dry ; 

But  left  the  arrow  sticking  in  my  breast 
That  sore  I  grieve  I  welcomed  such  a 
guest. 

—  ROBERT  GREENE  (1589.) 

n. 

'T  was  at  the  gloom  of  midnight  hour, 
When  sleep's  great  god  exerts  his  power ; 
When    wearied    swains     their     eyelids 

close, 

And  smooth  their  limbs  with  soft  re- 
pose ;  — 

I  heard  a  rapping  at  my  door, 
Such  as  I  ne'er  had  heard  before. 
Who  is  't,  said  I,  dares  break  my  sleep, 
And  at  my  door  such  uproar  keep  ? 
When  Cupid  shivering,  scarce  could  say, 
"  A  luckless  boy  has  lost  his  way, 


39 


0  haste,  my  friend,  and  open,  pray. 
You  need  not  fear,  I  mean  no  ill, 
To  hurt  I  have  no  power  nor  will ; 
This  dismal,  livelong  night,  —  in  vain, 

1  *ve  wandered  o'er  the  dreary  plain, 
Half-starved  with  cold,  wet  through  with 

rain." 

With  pity  moved  I  heard  his  moan, 
Then  struck  a  light  and  gat  me  down ; 
In  haste  I  let  him  in,  when  lo  ! 
His  hand  sustained  a  silver  bow : 
A  pair  of  shining  wings  he  wore, 
And  at  his  back  a  quiver  bore. 
As  soon  as  I  a  fire  had  made, 
My  little  guest  I  to  it  led ; 
I  warmed  his  fingers  with  my  own, 
For  cold  they  felt  as  any  stone, 
Then  wiped  and  wrung,  with    friendly 

care, 
The  wet  out  of  his  dripping  hair. 

Soon  as  the  thankless  elf  was  warm, 
And  found  that  he  had  got  no  harm, 


40 


"Let  's  try,"   said  he,  "I  fain   would 

know, 

Whether  the  wet  has  hurt  my  bow ; " 
Then  from  his  quiver  chose  with  speed 
A  shaft,  —  predestined  for  the  deed. 
So  strong  his  silver  bow  he  drew, 
So  swift  the  fatal  arrow  flew  ! 
It  pierced  my  liver  thro'  and  thro'. 
He  skipped  and  danced  about  the  room, 
And  sneering  cried,  "  Come,  landlord, 

come, 

And  as  a  friend  rejoice  with  me, 
That  I  from  every  harm  am  free ; 
I  safe  indeed  have  kept  my  bow, 
—  But  you  shall  rue  its  being  so." 

—  COWLEY. 

in. 

'T  was  about  the  midnight  season, 
When  Arktos  turns  already 
To  the  hand  of  Bootes, 
And  the  many  tribes  of  mortals 


Are  all  lying,  worn  and  weary ; 
It  was  then  there  came  young  Eros 
At  my  bolted  doors  a-knocking. 
"  Who  is  't  knocks,"  said  I,  "  so  loudly? 
Thou  my  pleasant  dreams  dost  scatter." 
But  says  Eros,  "  Open,  prithee  ; 
'T  is  an  infant,  be  not  frightened. 
I  am  fairly  drenched  and  lonely 
In  the  moonless  night  I  wander." 
At  his  tale  I  felt  some  pity ; 
So  my  lamp  forthwith  I  lighted, 
And  I  opened ;  and  an  infant 
I  beheld,  a  bow  who  carried, 
And  a  quiver  too  and  pinions. 
Then  beside  the  hearth  I  set  him, 
And  I  warmed  his  little  fingers 
In  my  palms,  and  from  his  tresses 
Did  I  wring  the  dripping  water. 
From  the  cold  when  he  recovered, 
"  Let  us,"  cried  he,  "  make  a  trial 
Of  my  bow ;  the  string,  I  fear  me, 
May  be  damaged  by  the  moisture." 


And  he  bends  it  then  and  strikes  me 
In  my  liver,  like  a  gadfly. 
Up  he  leapt  then,  shrilly  laughing ; 
Said  :  "  My  host,  let  us  be  joyful ; 
For  the  bow  is  quite  uninjured ; 
In  thy  heart,  tho',  thou  wilt  suffer." 

—  ARNOLD. 


IV. 
ON   HIMSELF 

i. 

Underneath  this  myrtle  shade, 
On  flowery  beds  supinely  laid, 
With  odorous  oils  my  head  o'erflowing 
And  around  it  roses  growing, 
What  should  I  do  but  drink  away 
The  heat  and  troubles  of  the  day  ? 
In  this  more  than  kingly  state, 
Love  himself  shall  on  me  wait, 


43 


Fill  to  me,  Love,  nay,  fill  it  up ; 
And  mingled  cast  into  the  cup 
Wit  and  Mirth  and  noble  Fires, 
Vigorous  Health  and  gay  Desires. 
The  wheel  of  life  no  less  will  stay 
Since  it  equally  doth  flee, 
Let  the  motion  pleasant  be. 
Why  do  we  precious  ointments  shower, 
Nobler  wines  why  do  we  pour, 
Beauteous  flowers  why  do  we  spread 
Upon  the  monuments  of  the  dead  ? 
Nothing  they  but  dust  can  show 
Or  bones  that  hasten  to  be  so. 
Crown  me  with  roses  while  I  live ; 
Now  your  wines  and  ointments  give ; 
After  death  I  nothing  crave, 
Let  me  alive  my  pleasures  have : 
All  are  Stoics  in  the  grave. 

—  COWLEY. 


44 


II. 

Upon  tender  sprigs  of  myrtle, 

Upon  pleasant  leaves  of  lotos, 

I  would  wish  to  drink  reclining. 

And  let  Eros  gird  his  tunic 

Round  his  shoulders  with  papyrus, 

Fill  my  wine  and  wait  upon  me. 

For  our  life  doth  run  as  quickly 

As  a  chariot-wheel  revolving. 

And  when  once  this  frame  is  shattered, 

We  shall  lie  a  heap  of  ashes. 

What  avails  to  anoint  a  tombstone  ? 

And  to  pour  out  vain  libations  ? 

Rather  anoint  me  while  I  'm  living ; 

And  of  roses  place  a  garland 

On  my  head ;  and  call  my  mistress. 

For  ere  yet  I  'm  forced  to  mingle 

In  the  dances  down  in  Hades 

I  would  wish  to  banish  sorrow. 

—  ARNOLD. 


45 


V. 

ON   THE   ROSE 

The  rose,  the  flower  of  Eros, 
Let  us  join  with  Dionysos  ; 
The  rose,  that  blooms  so  lovely, 
Around  our  temples  wreathing, 
Let  us  drink  with  gentle  laughter. 
The  rose,  the  best  of  flowers  ; 
The  rose,  the  Spring's  own  darling; 
And  e'en  the  Gods  love  roses. 
With  the  rose  Kythera's  offspring 
Enwreathes  his  silken  tresses, 
When  dancing  with  the  Graces. 
I  will  crown  myself  then,  harping 
In  thy  shrine,  O  Dionysos, 
With  a  fair  deep-bosomed  damsel, 
And  be-crowned  with  rosy  chaplets, 
Thickly  woven,  lead  the  dances. 


46 


A   FEAST 

Now  with  roses  we  are  crowned 
Let  our  mirth  and  cups  go  round, 
Whilst  a  lass,  whose  hand  a  spear 
Branched  with  ivy  twines  doth  bear, 
With  her  white  feet  beats  the  ground 

O 

To  the  lute's  harmonious  sound, 
Played  on  by  some  boy,  whose  choice 
Skill  is  heightened  by  his  voice ; 
Bright-haired  Love,  with  his  divine 
Mother,  and  the  God  of  Wine, 
Will  flock  hither,  glad  to  see 
Old  men  of  their  company. 


47 


Armed  with  hyacinthine  rod 
(Arms  enough  for  such  a  god), 
Cupid  bade  me  wing  my  pace, 
And  try  with  him  the  rapid  race. 
O'er  the  wild  torrent,  rude  and  deep, 
By  tangled  brake  and  pendent  steep, 
With  weary  foot  I  panting  flew, 
My  brow  was  chilled  with  drops  of  dew. 
And  now  my  soul  exhausted,  dying, 
To  my  lip  was  faintly  flying ; 
And  now  I  thought  the  spark  had  fled, 
When  Cupid  hovered  o'er  my  head, 
And,  fanning  light  his  breezy  plume, 
Recalled  me  from  my  languid  gloom ; 
Then  said,  in  accents  half  reproving, 
"  Why  hast  thou  been  a  foe  to  loving  ?  " 


48 


VIII. 

THE   DREAM 

i. 

'T  was  night,  and  many  a  circling  bowl 
Had  deeply  warmed  my  swimming  soul ; 
As  lulled  in  slumber  I  was  laid, 
Bright  visions  o'er  my  fancy  played ! 
With  virgins,  blooming  as  the  dawn, 
I  seemed  to  trace  the  opening  lawn ; 
Light,  on  tiptoe  bathed  in  dew, 
We  flew  and  sported  as  we  flew ! 
Some  ruddy  striplings,  young  and  sleek, 
With  blush  of  Bacchus  on  their  cheek, 
Saw  me  trip  the  flowery  wild 
With  dimpled  girls,  and  slyly  smiled  — 
Smiled  indeed  with  wanton  glee ; 
But  ah !  't  was  plain  they  envied  me. 
And  still  I  flew ;  and  now  I  caught 
The  panting  nymphs  and  fondly  thought 


49 


To  kiss  —  when  all  my  dream  of  joys, 
Dimpled  girls  and  ruddy  boys, 
All  were  gone  !     "  Alas  !  "  I  said, 
Sighing  for  the  illusions  fled, 
41  Sleep  !  again  my  joys  restore, 
Oh  !  let  me  dream  them  o'er  and  o'er  !  " 

—  MOORE. 


n. 

As  on  a  purple  bed  supine, 

Rapt  in  the  pleasing  joys  of  wine, 

I  lulled  my  weary  limbs  to  rest, 

Methought,    with     nymphs     supremely 

blest, 

A  beauteous  band,  I  urged  the  chase, 
Contending  in  the  rapid  race  : 
While  fairest  youths,  with  envy  stung, 
Fair  as  Lyaeus,  ever  young, 
With  jealous  leer,  and  bitter  jest, 
Their  keen  malevolence  exprest. 
Intent  on  love,  I  strive  to  greet 
The  gamesome  girls  with  kisses  sweet, 


And,  as  on  pleasure's  brink  I  seem, 

Wake,  and,  behold  !  't  is  all  a  dream. 

Vext  to  be  thus  alone  in  bed, 

My  visionary  charmers  fled, 

In  such  a  dark  and  joyless  scene, 

I  wish  to  sleep  and  dream  again. 

—  COWLEY. 


THE   DOVE 

Whither  flies  my  pretty  dove  ? 
Whither,  nimble  scout  of  Love  ? 
From  whose  wings  perfumes  distil, 
And  the  air  with  sweetness  fill. 
"  Is  't  to  thee  which  way  I  'm  bent  ? 
By  Anacreon  I  am  sent 
To  Rhodantha,  she  who  all 
Hearts  commands,  Love's  general. 


Nil 


I  to  Venus  did  belong, 
But  she  sold  me  for  a  song 
To  her  poet ;  his  I  am, 
And  from  him  this  letter  came, 
For  which  he  hath  promised  me 
That  ere  long  he  '11  set  me  free. 
But  though  freedom  I  should  gain, 
I  with  him  would  still  remain ; 
For  what  profit  were  the  change, 
Fields  from  tree  to  tree  to  range, 
And  on  hips  and  haws  to  feed, 
When  I  may  at  home  pick  bread 
From  his  hand,  and  freely  sup 
Purest  wine  from  his  own  cup  ? 
Hovering  then  with  wings  displayed, 
I  my  master  overshade ; 
And  if  night  invite  to  rest, 
In  his  harp  I  make  my  nest. 

"  Now  thou  dost  my  errand  know, 
Friend,  without  more  questions  go  j 
For  thy  curiosity 
Makes  me  to  outchat  a  pie." 


EROS   IN  WAX 

"  Tell  me,  gentle  youth,  I  pray  thee, 
What  in  purchase  shall  I  pay  thee 
For  this  little  waxen  toy, 
Image  of  the  Paphian  boy  ?  " 
Thus  I  said  the  other  day 
To  a  youth  who  passed  my  way. 
"  Sir  "  (he  answered,  and  the  while 
Answered  all  in  Doric  style), 
"  Take  it,  for  a  trifle  take  it ; 
Think  not  yet  that  I  could  make  it ; 
Pray  believe  it  was  not  I ; 
No  —  it  cost  me  many  a  sigh, 
And  I  can  no  longer  keep 
Little  gods  who  murder  sleep  !  " 
"  Here,  then,  here,"  I  said  with  joy, 
"  Here  is  silver  for  the  boy  : 


53 


He  shall  be  my  bosom  guest, 
Idol  of  my  pious  breast !  " 
Little  Love  !  thou  now  art  mine, 
Warm  me  with  that  torch  of  thine  ; 
Make  me  feel  as  I  have  felt, 
Or  thy  waxen  frame  shall  melt. 
I  must  burn  with  warm  desire, 
Or  thou,  my  boy,  in  yonder  fire ! 


THE  COMBAT 

I  will,  I  will ;  the  conflict  's  past, 
And  I  '11  consent  to  love  at  last. 
Cupid  has  long,  with  smiling  art, 
Invited  me  to  yield  my  heart ; 
And  I  have  thought  that  peace  of  mind 
Should  not  be  for  a  smile  resigned  ; 
And  I  've  repelled  the  tender  lure, 
And  hoped  my  heart  should  sleep  secure. 


54 


But  slighted  in  his  boasted  charms, 
The  angry  infant  flew  to  arms ; 
He  slung  his  quiver's  golden  frame, 
He  took  his  bow,  his  shafts  of  flame, 
And  proudly  summoned  me  to  yield, 
Or  meet  him  on  the  martial  field. 
And  what  did  I  unthinking  do  ? 
I  took  to  arms,  undaunted  too : 
Assumed  the  corselet,  shield  and  spear, 
And,  like  Pelides,  smiled  at  fear. 
Then  (hear  it,  all  ye  Powers  above !) 
I  fought  with  Love,  I  fought  with  Love  ! 
And  now  his  arrows  all  were  shed  — 
And  I  had  just  in  terror  fled  — 
When,  heaving  an  indignant  sigh, 
To  see  me  thus  unwounded  fly, 
And  having  now  no  other  dart, 
He  glanced  himself  into  my  heart ! 
My  heart  —  alas  the  luckless  day  ! 
Received  the  god,  and  died  away. 
Farewell,  farewell,  my  faithless  shield  ! 
Thy  lord  at  length  was  forced  to  yield. 


55 


Vain,  vain  is  every  outward  care, 
My  foe  's  within,  and  triumphs  there. 


XII. 
TO  THE  SWALLOW 

Tell  me  how  to  punish  thee, 
For  the  mischief  done  to  me  ! 
Silly  swallow  !  prating  thing, 
Shall  I  clip  that  wheeling  wing  ? 
Or,  as  Tereus  did  of  old 
(So  the  fabled  tale  is  told), 
Shall  I  tear  that  tongue  away,  , 
Tongue  that  uttered  such  a  lay  ? 
How  unthinking  hast  thou  been ! 
Long  before  the  dawn  was  seen, 
When  I  slumbered  in  a  dream, 
(Love  was  the  delicious  theme  ! ) 
Just  when  I  was  nearly  blest, 
Ah  !  thy  matin  broke  my  rest ! 


XIII. 
ON   HIMSELF 

There  are,  who  tell  the  story 

Of  the  semi-female  Attis, 

Who,  mad  for  fair  Kybele, 

Went  shouting  'mong  the  mountains. 

There  are,  who  by  the  Claros 

Drinking  the  babbling  water 

Of  laurel-bearing  Phoibos, 

Go  frantically  shouting. 

But  I,  intoxicated 

With  Bacchos  and  with  ointments, 

And  my  own  dearest  mistress, 

Am  gladly,  gladly  frantic. 


57 


XIV. 
THE  AGED  LOVER 

The  women  tell  me  every  day 
That  all  my  bloom  has  passed  away. 
"  Behold,"  the  pretty  wantons  cry, 
u  Behold  this  mirror  with  a  sigh  ; 
The  locks  upon  thy  brow  are  few, 
And,   like   the  rest,  they  're  withering 

too ! " 

Whether  decline  has  thinned  my  hair, 
I  'm  sure  I  neither  know  nor  care ; 
But  this  I  know  and  this  I  feel, 
As  onward  to  the  tomb  I  steal, 
That  still  as  death  approaches  nearer, 
The  joys  of  life  are  sweeter,  dearer ; 
And  had  I  but  an  hour  to  live, 
That  little  hour  to  bliss  I  'd  give ! 


XV. 
CONTENT 

I  not  care  for  Gyges'  sway, 

Or  the  Lydian  sceptre  weigh ; 

Nor  am  covetous  of  gold, 

Nor  with  envy  kings  behold ; 

All  my  care  is  to  prepare 

Fragrant  unguents  for  my  hair ; 

Roses  for  a  coronet ; 

All  my  care  is  for  to-day ; 

What  's  to-morrow  who  can  say  ? 

Come  then,  let  us  drink  and  dice, 

And  to  Bacchus  sacrifice, 

Ere  death  come  and  take  us  off, 

Crying  Hold  !  thou  'st  drunk  enough 


59 


nv  #.-«-»».  *.-  .? 


XVI. 
THE   CAPTIVE 

Thou  of  Thebes,  of  Troy  sings  he ; 

I  my  own  captivity  : 

*T  was  no  army,  horse  or  foot, 

Nor  a  navy  brought  me  to  't, 

But  a  stranger  enemy 

Shot  me  from  my  mistress'  eye ! 


XVII. 
TO  A   MAIDEN 

Once  on  the  Phrygian  mountains, 

Stood  Niobe  in  marble ; 

Once  too  Pandion's  daughter 

Skimmed  through  the  air,  a  swallow. 

And  I  would  be  a  mirror, 

That  thou  might'st  look  upon  me : 


60 


Or  I  would  be  a  tunic, 

That  thou  might'st  always  wear  me  ; 

Or  fain  would  I  be  water, 

To  wash  thy  beauteous  body  ; 

Or  ointment,  dearest  woman, 

That  so  I  might  anoint  thee ; 

Or  a  girdle  round  thy  bosom  ; 

Or  a  pearl-band  for  thy  necklace ; 

Nay,  I  would  be  a  sandal, 

That  thou  might'st  trample  on  me  ! 

XVIII. 
ON  A  SILVER   DRINKING -CUP 

In  fashioning  this  silver, 
Hephaistos,  prithee  make  me 
A  Panoply  -~  by  no  means. 
What  have  I  to  do  with  fighting  ? 
But  make  a  hollow  beaker, 
As  deep  as  thou  art  able, 


61 


And  make  me  all  around  it, 
Not  stars,  such  as  the  wagon, 
Or  Orion  the  gloomy. 
What  care  I  for  the  Pleiads, 
Or  the  stars  of  old  Bootes, 
But  fashion  me  a  vine-stock, 
With  twining  grapes  upon  it, 
And  Maenads  gathering  bunches. 
And  make  me  too  a  wine-press, 
And  Eros  and  Bathyllos, 
In  gold,  to  tread  the  juice  out, 
Conjoined  with  fair  Lyaios. 


XIX. 


Oh  !  skilful  artist,  work  me 
A  goblet  of  the  spring-time ; 
The  time  that  brings  us  roses, 
Those  prime  and  dearest  treasures. 


62 


And  chase  upon  the  silver 

A  full  and  pleasant  banquet. 

I  '11  have  no  sacrifices ; 

Nor  aught  to  joy  that  's  foreign  ; 

Nor  any  tragic  story ; 

But  of  Zeus  the  genial  offspring, 

The  great  and  jovial  Bacchus, 

And  love's  high-priestess,  Kypris, 

With  Hymenaios  dancing. 

And  grave  the  Loves  unweaponed, 

And  the  Graces  sweetly  laughing, 

Beneath  a  leafy  vine-stock, 

Well-filled  with  grapes  in  clusters ; 

Let  handsome  youths  be  added, 

And  let  Phoibos  too  disport  him. 


XX. 

ON  THE  NEED  FOR  DRINKING 

i. 

The  dry  and  dusky  earth  drinks ; 
The  trees,  too,  drink  her  moisture, ; 
The  sea  doth  drink  the  rivers  ; 
The  sun  doth  drink  the  sea-waves ; 
The  moon  doth  drink  the  sunbeams. 
Why  cavil  then  at  me,  friend, 
That  I  am  fond  of  drinking  ? 

H. 

The  fruitful  earth  does  drink  the  rain ; 
Trees  drink  the  fruitful  earth  again. 
The  sea  does  drink  the  liquid  air ; 
By  the  sun's  beams  the  sea-waves  are 
Drunk  up,  which  is  no  sooner  done 
But  straight  the  moon  drinks  up  the  sun. 


64 


Why  then,  companions,  do  you  think 
I  may  not  with  like  freedom  drink  ? 
—  BARTON  HOLYDAY  (1618). 


in. 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 
And  drinks  and  gapes  for  drink  again  ; 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair; 
The  sea  itself,  which  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink, 
Drinks  ten  thousand  rivers  up 
So  filled  that  they  o'erflow  the  cup ; 
The  busy  sun  —  and  one  would  guess 
By  's  drunken  fiery  face  no  less  — 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he  'as  done 
The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun ; 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light, 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  Nature  's  sober  found, 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 


Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high ! 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there  !  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I  ? 
Why,  man  of  morals  ?  tell  me  why  ! 

—  COWLEY. 

IV. 

I  '11  example  you  with  thievery : 

The  sun  's  a  thief,  and  with  his  great 

attraction 

Robs  the  vast  sea:  the  moon  's  an  ar- 
rant thief, 
And  her  pale  fire  she  snatches  from  the 

sun; 
The  sea  's  a  thief,  whose  liquid  surge 

resolves 
The  moon  into  salt  tears :  the  earth  's  a 

thief, 
That  feeds  and  breeds  by  a  composture 

stolen 
From  general  excrement :  each  thing  's 

a  thief: 


The  laws,  your  curb  and  whip,  in  their 

rough  power 
Have  unchecked  theft. 

—  SHAKESPEARE    ("  Timon  of  Ath- 
ens," Act  iv.,  Sc.  3. 


XXL 

ON   HIMSELF 

Oh  !  give  me,  women,  give  me, 
A  heavy  draught  of  Bacchus ; 
For  I  now  subdued  and  prostrate, 
With  excessive  heat  am  gasping. 
And  his  fragrant  flowers  give  me ; 
Though  the  wreaths,  I  fear,  will  wither, 
With  the  which  I  crown  my  temples. 
But  the  burning  heat  of  passion, 
How,  my  heart,  shall  I  extinguish  ? 


m 


XXII. 
TO   BATHYLLOS 

i. 

Come  and  sit  thee  down,  Bathyllos, 
In  the  shade  j  the  tree  is  lovely ; 
And  its  tender  tresses  quiver 
On  its  young  and  slender  branches, 
And  beside  it  there  invites  us 
A  rill  with  suasive  murmur. 
Who  could  see  and  yet  pass  by  it, 
Pass  so  sweet  a  place  of  resting  ? 

—  ARNOLD. 

H. 

Here  recline  you,  gentle  maid  ! 
Sweet  is  this  imbowering  shade ; 
Sweet  the  young,  the  modest  trees 
Ruffled  by  the  kissing  breeze, 


Sweet  the  little  founts  that  weep, 
Lulling  bland  the  mind  to  sleep ; 
Hark,  they  whisper  as  they  roll, 
Calm  persuasion  to  the  soul ; 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  is  not  this 
All  a  stilly  scene  of  bliss  ? 
Who,  my  girl,  would  pass  it  by  ? 
Surely  neither  you  nor  I ! 

—  MOORE. 

XXIII. 
GOLD 


If  hoarded  gold  possessed  a  power 
To  lengthen  life's  too  fleeting  hour, 
And  purchase  from  the  hand  of  death 
A  little  span,  a  moment's  breath, 
How  I  would  love  the  precious  ore 
And  every  day  should  swell  my  store ; 


69 


mfr 


That  when  the  Fates  would  send  their 

minion, 

To  waft  me  off  on  shadowy  pinion, 
I  might  some  hours  of  life  obtain, 
And  bribe  him  back  to  hell  again. 
But,  since  we  ne'er  can  charm  away 
The  mandate  of  that  awful  day, 
Why  do  we  vainly  weep  at  fate, 
And  sigh  for  life's  uncertain  date  ? 
The  light  of  gold  can  ne'er  illume 
The  dreary  midnight  of  the  tomb  ! 
And  why  should  I  then  pant  for  treas- 
ures? 

Mine  be  the  brilliant  round  of  pleasures  ; 
The  goblet  rich,  the  board  of  friends, 
Whose  flowing  souls  the  goblet  blends ! 
Mine  be  the  nymph  whose  form  reposes 
Seductive  on  that  bed  of  roses ; 
And  oh  !  be  mine  the  soul's  excess, 
Expiring  in  her  warm  caress  ! 

—  MOORE. 


II. 

If  I  thought  that  golden  riches 
Could  life  bestow  on  mortals, 
I  watchfully  would  guard  them ; 
That   when    Death    should    come    his 

errand, 

He  might  take  his  share  and  vanish. 
But  since  't  is  not  permitted, 
That  mortals  life  should  purchase, 
What  boots  it  vainly  sighing  ? 
Why  utter  lamentations  ? 
Since  death  indeed  is  certain, 
Of  what  avail  are  riches  ? 
Nay,  let  me  rather  drink  then, 
And  of  wine  the  sweetest  drinking, 
With  boon  companions  revel ; 
And  on  soft  couches  lying, 
Devote  myself  to  Kypris. 

—  ARNOLD. 


XXIV. 
ON   HIMSELF 

I  am  sprung  of  human  seed 
For  a  life's  short  race  decreed ; 
Though  I  know  the  way  I  've  gone, 
That  which  is  to  come  's  unknown. 
Busy  thoughts  do  not  disturb  me ; 
What  have  you  to  do  to  curb  me  ? 
Come,  some  wine  and  music  give : 
Ere  we  die,  't  is  fit  we  live. 


XXV. 
ON   HIMSELF 

When  wine  I  drink,  my  sorrows 
Are  quickly  hushed  in  slumber, 
What  care  I  then  for  troubles, 
For  tears  or  lamentations  ? 


From  death  there  's  no  escaping ; 
But  life  why  should  I  squander  ? 
Then  let  us  quaff  the  liquor 
Of  the  beautiful  Lyaios. 
For  when  we  drink,  our  sorrows 
At  once  are  hushed  in  slumber. 


XXVI. 
ON   HIMSELF 

When  my  sense  in  wine  I  steep, 
All  my  cares  are  lulled  asleep : 
Rich  in  thought,  I  then  despise 
Crossus,  and  his  royalties } 
Whilst  with  ivy  twines  I  wreathe  me 
And  sing  all  the  world  beneath  me. 
Others  run  to  martial  fights, 
I  to  Bacchus's  delights ; 
Fill  the  cup  then,  boy,  for  I 
Drunk  than  dead  had  rather  lie. 


73 


ON   DIONYSOS 


When  the  child  of  Zeus,  Lyaios, 
The  care-dispelling  Bacchos, 
Into  my  spirit  enters, 
He  brings  me  tipsy  pleasure, 
And  how  to  dance  instructs  me, 
There  are  other  joys  to  charm  me, 
Than  mirth  and  tipsy  frolic. 
In  the  midst  of  song  and  revel 
Then  Afrodita  charms  me, 
And  again  to  dance  I  hasten. 


74 


XXVIII. 
THE   PICTURE 

i. 

Painter,  by  unmatched  desert 
Master  of  the  Rhodian  art, 
Come,  my  absent  mistress  take, 
As  I  shall  describe  her :  make 
First  her  hair,  as  black  as  bright, 
And  if  colours  so  much  right 
Can  but  do  her,  let  it  too 
Smell  of  aromatic  dew ; 
Underneath  this  shade,  must  thou 
Draw  her  alabaster  brow ; 
Her  dark  eyebrows  so  dispose 
That  they  neither  part  nor  close, 
But  by  a  divorce  so  slight 
Be  disjoined,  may  cheat  the  sight : 
From  her  kindly  killing  eye 
Make  a  flash  of  lightning  fly, 


75 


Sparkling  like  Minerva's,  yet 
Like  Cythera's  mildly  sweet  : 
Roses  in  milk  swimming  seek 
For  the  pattern  of  her  cheek  : 
In  her  lips  such  moving  blisses, 
As  from  all  may  challenge  kisses ; 
Round  about  her  neck  (outvying 
Parian  stone)  the  Graces  flying ; 
And  o'er  all  her  limbs  at  last 
A  loose  purple  mantle  cast ; 
But  so  ordered  that  the  eye 
Some  part  naked  may  descry, 
An  essay  by  which  the  rest 
That  lies  hidden  may  be  guessed. 
So,  to  life  thou  'st  come  so  near, 
All  of  her,  but  voice,  is  here. 

—  STANLEY. 


n. 


Thy  pencil,  best  of  artists,  take, 
The  portrait,  I  describe,  to  make : 


Paint,  master  of  the  Rhodian  art, 
The  absent  mistress  of  my  heart. 
To  copy  first  her  tresses  try, 
Of  silky  touch  and  sable  dye  : 
And,  if  thy  wax  possess  the  power, 
Let  them  the  sweetest  fragrance  shower. 
Beneath  her  hair,  of  ebon  hue, 
An  ivory  forehead  let  me  view ! 
Her  eyebrows  you  must  not  divide, 
Nor  must  their  juncture  be  descried ; 
But  let  the  space  that  lies  between, 
As  in  her  face,  be  scarcely  seen. 
Her  eyes'  round  fringe  exhibit  dark, 
And  steal  from  fire  their  radiant  spark ; 
In  colours  like  Minerva's  blue, 
With  Cytherea's  tenderest  hue. 
To  show  her  matchless  cheeks  and  nose, 
Mingle  with  milk  the  damask  rose, 
Her  lip  !     Persuasion  paint  for  this, 
Inviting  an  ecstatic  kiss. 
Beneath  her  chin,  her  snowy  neck 
Let  all  the  sportive  Graces  deck : 


And  let  her  tender  limbs  be  drest, 
In  a  translucent,  violet  vest, 
Which,  while  it  slightly  veils  her  skin, 
The  whole  discloses  from  within. 
Enough  !     My  girl  herself  I  see ; 
Soon,  wax,  like  her,  you  '11  talk  to  me  ! 

—  COWLEY. 


TO 


XXIX. 


YOUNG  BATHYLLOS 


And  now,  with  all  thy  pencil's  truth, 
Portray  Bathyllos,  lovely  youth  ! 
Let  his  hair,  in  lapses  bright, 
Fall  like  streaming  rays  of  light ; 
And  there  the  raven's  dye  confuse 
With  the  yellow  sunbeam's  hues. 
Let  not  the  braid,  with  artful  twine, 
The  flowing  of  his  locks  confine ; 
But  loosen  every  golden  ring, 
To  float  upon  the  breeze's  wing. 


Beneath  the  front  of  polished  glow, 
Front  as  fair  as  mountain  snow, 
And  guileless  as  the  dews  of  dawn, 
Let  the  majestic  brows  be  drawn, 
Of  ebon  dyes,  enriched  by  gold, 
Such  as  the  scaly  snakes  unfold. 
Mingle  in  his  jetty  glances 
Power  that  awes  and  love  that  trances ; 
Steal  from  Venus  bland  desire, 
Steal  from  Mars  the  look  of  fire, 
Blend  them  in  such  expression  here, 
That  we,  by  turns,  may  hope  and  fear  j 
Now  from  the  sunny  apple  seek 
The  velvet  down  that  spreads  his  cheek ! 
And  there  let  Beauty's  rosy  ray 
In  flying  blushes  richly  play ;  — 
Blushes  of  that  celestial  flame 
Which  lights  the  cheek  of  virgin  shame. 
Then  for  his  lips,  that  ripely  gem  — 
But  let  thy  mind  imagine  them  ! 
Paint,  where  the  ruby  cell  uncloses 
Persuasion  sleeping  upon  roses ; 


And  give  his  lip  that  speaking  air, 
As  if  a  word  was  hovering  there  ! 
His  neck  of  ivory  splendour  trace, 
Moulded  with  soft  but  manly  grace ; 
Fair  as  the  neck  of  Paphia's  boy, 
Where  Paphia's  arms  have  hung  in  joy. 
Give  him  the  winged  Hermes'  hand, 
With  which  he  waves  his  snaky  wand ; 
Let  Bacchus  then  the  breast  supply, 
And  Leda's  son  the  sinewy  thigh. 
But  oh  !  suffuse  his  limbs  of  fire 
With  all  that  glow  of  young  desire 
Which  kindles  when  the  wishful  sigh 
Steals  from  the  heart,  unconscious  why. 
Thy  penci.1,  though  divinely  bright, 
Is  envious  of  the  eye's  delight, 
Or  its  enamoured  touch  would  show 
His  shoulder,  fair  as  sunless  snow, 
Which  now  in  veiling  shadow  lies, 
Removed  from  all  but  Fancy's  eyes. 
Now,  for  his  feet  —  but,  hold  !  forbear  ! 
I  see  a  godlike  portrait  there ; 


80 


So  like  Bathyllos  !  —  sure  there  's  none 
So  like  Bathyllos  but  the  Sun  ! 
Oh,  let  this  pictured  god  be  mine, 
And  keep  the  boy  from  Samos'  shrine ; 
Phoebus  shall  then  Bathyllos  be, 
Bathyllos  then  the  deity  ! 


XXX. 

LOVE   IMPRISONED 

i. 

Love,  in  rosy  fetters  caught, 

To  my  fair  the  Muses  brought ; 

Gifts  his  mother  did  prefer 

To  release  the  prisoner, 

But  he  'd  not  be  gone,  though  free, 

Pleased  with  his  captivity. 

—  STANLEY. 


81 


II. 

One  day  the  Muses  twined  the  hands 
Of  baby  Love  with  flowery  bands  j 
And  to  celestial  Beauty  gave 
The  captive  infant  as  her  slave. 
His  mother  comes  with  many  a  toy, 
To  ransom  her  beloved  boy ; 
His  mother  sues  but  all  in  vain ! 
He  ne'er  will  leave  his  chains  again. 
Nay,  should  they  take  his  chains  away, 
The  little  captive  still  would  stay. 
"  If  this,"  he  cries,  "  a  bondage  be, 
Who  could  wish  for  liberty  ?  " 

—  MOORE. 


XXXI. 
EUROPA 

This  the  figure  is  of  Jove, 

To  a  bull  transformed  by  Love, 


On  whose  back  the  Tyrian  Maid 
Through  the  surges  was  conveyed  : 
See  how  swiftly  he  the  wide 
Sea  doth  with  strong  hoofs  divide; 
He  (and  he  alone)  could  swim, 
None  o'  th'  herd  e'er  followed  him. 


XXXII. 
ON   HIS   OWN   LOVES 

The  leaves  of  all  the  forests, 
If  thou  art  skilled  to  reckon ; 
If  thou  canst  tell  the  billows 
Of  all  the  seas  together ; 
Of  the  loves  then  of  my  bosom, 
I  '11  make  thee  sole  accountant. 
And  first  of  all  from  Athens, 
Of  loves  put  down  a  twenty, 
And  then  add  fifteen  others ; 
And  let  forsooth  from  Corinth, 


A  swarm  of  loves  be  added ; 
For,  troth,  does  not  Achaia 
Abound  with  beauteous  women  ? 
Then  put  me  down  the  Lesbians, 
And  further  the  lonians, 
And  those  from  Rhodes  and  Karia, 
Of  loves,  in  all  two  thousand. 
What  say'st  ?     Go  on  inscribing. 
Untold  my  Syrian  passions, 
And  those  too  of  Kanobos  ; 
And  those  of  Krete,  possessing 
All  things,  within  whose  cities 
Doth  Eros  hold  his  orgies. 
Expect  not  I  should  reckon, 
Of  all  my  loves  the  number, 
On  the  other  side  of  Gades ; 
The  Bactrians  and  the  Indians. 


84 


XXXIII. 
THE  AGED   LOVER 

Fly  not  thus  my  brow  of  snow, 
Lovely  wanton !  fly  not  so. 
Though  the  wane  of  age  is  mine, 
Though  the  brilliant  flush  is  thine, 
Still  I  'm  doomed  to  sigh  for  thee, 
Blest,  if  thou  could'st  sigh  for  me ! 
See,  in  yonder  flowery  braid, 
Culled  for  thee,  my  blushing  maid, 
How  the  rose,  of  orient  glow, 
Mingles  with  the  lily's  snow ; 
Mark  how  sweet  their  tints  agree, 
Just,  my  girl,  like  thee  and  me ! 


XXXIV. 
VAIN   ADVICE 

Prythee  trouble  me  no  more ; 

I  will  drink,  be  mad  and  roar ; 

Alcmaeon  and  Orestes  grew 

Mad,  when  they  their  mothers  slew ; 

But  I  no  man  having  killed 

Am  with  hurtless  fury  filled. 

Hercules  with  madness  struck, 

Bent  his  bow,  his  quiver  shook ; 

Ajax  mad  did  fiercely  wield 

Hector's  sword  and  grasped  his  shield. 

I  nor  spear  nor  target  have, 

But  this  cup  —  my  weapon  —  wave. 

Crowned  with  roses,  thus  for  more 

Wine  I  call,  drink,  dance,  and  roar ! 


86 


XXXV. 
THE   SWALLOW 

i. 

Gentle  swallow,  thou  we  know 

Every  year  dost  come  and  go ; 

In  the  spring  thy  nest  thou  makest ; 

In  the  winter  it  forsakest 

And  divert'st  thyself  awhile 

Near  the  Memphian  towers,  or  Nile : 

But  Love  in  my  suffering  breast 

Builds,  and  never  quits  his  nest ; 

First  one  Love  *s  hatched;  when  that 

flies, 

In  the  shell  another  lies ; 
Then  a  third  is  half  exposed  ; 
Then  a  whole  brood  is  disclosed 
Which  for  meat  still  peeping  fly 
Do  their  callow  brethren  feed, 
And  grown  up,  they  young  ones  breed. 


What  then  will  become  of  me 
Bound  to  pain  incessantly, 
Whilst  so  many  Loves  conspire 
On  my  heart  by  turns  to  tire  ? 

—  STANLEY. 


H. 


Yes,  thou,  my  pretty  swallow, 

Dost  make  thy  journey  yearly ; 

Thy  nest  in  summer  weaving, 

Unseen  again  in  winter, 

Or  at  the  Nile,  or  Memphis. 

But  Eros  in  my  bosom 

His  nest  is  ever  weaving. 

One  Love  is  fledged  already, 

And  one  is  in  the  egg  still, 

And  one  is  only  half-hatched. 

And  there  's  a  constant  bustle, 

With  the  young  ones  always  chirping. 

And  the  bigger  Loves  for  ever 

Are  nourishing  the  smaller. 

And  in  their  turn  the  nurslings, 


88 


Produce  a  brood  of  young  ones. 
What  course  then  can  be  taken  ? 
I  have  not  strength  sufficient 
So  many  Loves  to  banish. 

—  ARNOLD. 


XXXVI. 
CHEERFUL  LIVING 

i. 

Away,  away,  you  men  of  rules, 
What  have  I  to  do  with  schools  ? 
They  'd  make  me  learn,  they  'd  make  me 

think, 

But  would  they  make  me  love  and  drink  ? 
Teach  me  this,  and  let  me  swim 
My  soul  upon  the  goblet's  brim  ; 
Teach  me  this,  and  let  me  twine 
My  arms  around  the  nymph  divine ! 


Age  begins  to  blanch  my  brow, 

I  've  time  for  nought  but  pleasure  now. 

Fly  and  cool  my  goblet's  glow 

At  yonder  fountain's  gelid  glow. 

I  '11  quaff,  my  boy,  and  calmly  sink 

This  soul  to  slumber  as  I  drink  ! 

Soon,  too  soon,  my  jocund  slave, 

You  '11  deck  your  master's  grassy  grave ; 

And  there  's  an  end  —  for  ah  !  you  know 

They  drink  but  little  wine  below ! 

—  MOORE. 
n. 

Vex  no  more  thyself  and  me 
With  demure  philosophy ; 
Hollow  precepts  only  fit 
To  amuse  the  busy  wit. 
Teach  me  brisk  Lyaeus'  rites  j 
Teach  me  Venus'  blithe  delights. 
Jove  loves  water,  give  me  wine, 
That  my  soul  ere  I  resign 
May  this  cure  of  sorrow  have  : 
There  's  no  drinking  in  the  grave ! 

—  STANLEY. 


90 


XXXVII. 

THE   SPRING 

See  the  Spring  herself  discloses, 
And  the  Graces  gather  roses ; 
See  how  the  becalmed  seas 
Now  their  swelling  waves  appease ; 
How  the  duck  swims,  how  the  crane 
Comes  from  's  winter  home  again ; 
See  how  Titan's  cheerful  ray 
Chaseth  the  dark  clouds  away ; 
Now  in  their  new  robes  of  green 
Are  the  ploughman's  labours  seen : 
Now  the  lusty  teeming  Earth 
Springs  each  hour  with  a  new  birth ; 
Now  the  olive  blooms :  the  vine 
Now  doth  with  plump  pendants  shine ; 
And  with  leaves  and  blossom  now 
Freshly  bourgeons  every  bough. 


mm. 


XXXVIII. 
TO    HIMSELF 

'Tis  true,  my  fading  years  decline, 
Yet  I  can  quaff  the  brimming  wine 
As  deep  as  any  stripling  fair 
Whose   cheeks    the    flush   of   morning 

wear; 

And  if,  amidst  the  wanton  crew, 
I  'm  called  to  wind  the  dance's  clue, 
Thou  shalt  behold  this  vigorous  hand 
Not  faltering  on  the  bacchant's  wand, 
But  brandishing  a  rosy  flask, 
The  only  thyrsus  e'er  I  '11  ask ! 
Let  those  who  pant  for  Glory's  charms 
Embrace  her  in  the  field  of  arms ; 
While  my  inglorious,  placid  soul 
Breathes  not  a  wish  beyond  the  bowl. 
Then  fill  it  high,  my  ruddy  slave, 
And  bathe  me  in  its  honeyed  wave ! 


92 


For  though  my  fading  years  decay, 
And  though  my  bloom  has  passed  away, 
Like  old  Silenus,  sire  divine, 
With  blushes  borrowed  from  my  wine, 
I  '11  wanton  mid  the  dancing  train, 
And  live  my  follies  all  again ! 

XXXIX. 
FROLIC   WINE 

When  of  wine  I  drink  a  plenty, 
Then  my  heart  with  rapture  gladdened 
Begins  its  carol  of  the  muses. 
When  of  wine  I  drink  a  plenty, 
All  my  cares  and  grievous  troubles 
Are  driven  away  and  scattered 
To  the  billow-lashing  breezes. 
When  of  wine  I  drink  a  plenty, 
Then  the  joy  relaxing  Bacchus, 
Amid  the  flowery  airs  doth  whirl  me 
In  a  glad  intoxication. 


93 


When  of  wine  I  drink  a  plenty, 
Then  I  weave  me  flowery  garlands, 
And  upon  my  head  I  place  them ; 
And  I  sing  how  tranquil  life  is. 
When  of  wine  I  drink  a  plenty, 
Then  my  body  with  sweet  ointment 
I  anoint,  and  hold  my  mistress 
In  my  arms,  and  sing  of  Kypris. 
When  of  wine  I  drink  a  plenty, 
Then  with  deep  and  ample  goblets, 
All  my  inmost  bosom  opens ; 
I  am  charmed  with  the  dance  of  maidens. 
When  of  wine  I  drink  a  plenty, 
As  the  only  gain  I  count  it ; 
And  that  gain  I  carry  with  me ; 
For  to  die  is  the  lot  of  all  men. 


94 


XL. 
LOVE   STUNG   BY   A   BEE 

i. 

Once  Eros,  mid  the  roses, 
A  sleeping  bee  awakened, 
Which  on  the  finger  stung  him. 
His  heart  was  filled  with  sorrow. 

Half-running  and  half-flying, 
He  sought  his  goddess  mother, 
The  beautiful  Kythera : 
"Alas,  O  mother,"  crying, 

"  Olola,  I  am  dying  ! 
A  little  winged  serpent, 
A  bee,  the  shepherds  name  it, 
Has  stung  me  on  my  finger." 

His  mother  said  :  u  If  bee-stings 
Are  found  to  be  so  painful, 


Cs> 


95 


Thou  seest  how  mortals  suffer 
When  wounded  by  thy  arrows  !  " 
—  N.  H.  D. 


II. 

L'AMOUR  PIQUE  PAR  UNE  ABEILLE 

Le  tendre  Amour  cueillant  un  jour  des 

fleurs, 

Fut,  par  hasard,  pique  par  une  abeille 
Cachee  au  fond  d'une  rose  vermeille ; 
Au  meme  instant  il  s'en  va  tout  en 

pleurs 

Dire  a  Venus  :  u  Ma  mere,  je  me  meurs ; 
Je  suis  pique  d'une  vipere  ailee, 
Qui  dans  ces  lieux  abeille  est  appelee : 
Je  n'en  puis  plus,  je  me  meurs,  je  me 

meurs." 

"  Si  d'une  abeille,  6  mon  fils,  la  piqure," 
Repond  Venus,  u  vous  fait  tant  de  dou- 

leur, 


Quelle  douleur  croyez-vous  done  qu'en- 

dure 
Un    malheureux    dont    vous    percez    le 

coeur?" 

—  M.  REGNIER. 


XLI. 


PRAISE   OF   BACCHUS 

Whilst  our  joys  with  wine  we  raise, 
Youthful  Bacchus  we  will  praise. 
Bacchus  dancing  did  invent; 
Bacchus  is  on  songs  intent ; 
Bacchus  teacheth  Love  to  court, 
And  his  mother  how  to  sport ; 
Graceful  confidence  he  lends; 
He  oppressive  trouble  ends ; 
To  the  bowl  when  we  repair, 
Grief  doth  vanish  into  air ; 


97 


Drink  we  then,  and  drown  all  sorrow ; 
All  our  care  not  knows  the  morrow ; 
Life  is  dark,  let  's  dance  and  play, 
They  that  will  be  troubled  may ; 
We  our  joys  with  wine  will  raise, 
Youthful  Bacchus  we  will  praise. 


XLII. 
MIRTH 

Yes,  be  the  glorious  revel  mine, 
Where  humour  sparkles  from  the  wine ! 
Around  me  let  the  youthful  choir 
Respond  to  my  beguiling  lyre ; 
And  while  the  red  cup  circles  round, 
Mingle  in  soul  as  well  as  sound ! 
Let  the  bright  nymph,  with   trembling 

eye, 
Beside  me  all  in  blushes  lie ; 


98 


And  while  she  weaves  a  frontlet  fair 
Of  hyacinth  to  deck  my  hair, 
Oh  !  let  me  snatch  her  sidelong  kisses, 
And  that  shall  be  my  bliss  of  blisses ! 
My  soul,  to  festive  feeling  true, 
One  pang  of  envy  never  knew ; 
And  little  has  it  learned  to  dread 
The  gall  that  Envy's  tongue  can  shed. 
Away  !  I  hate  the  slanderous  dart 
Which    steals    to   wound    the    unwary 

heart ; 

And  oh !  I  hate,  with  all  my  soul, 
Discordant  clamours  o'er  the  bowl, 
Where  every  cordial  heart  should  be, 
Attuned  to  peace  and  harmony. 
Come,  let  us  hear  the  soul  of  song 
Expire  the  silver  heart  along : 
And  through  the  dance's  ringlet  move, 
With  maidens  mellowing  into  love ; 
Thus  simply  happy,  thus  at  peace, 
Sure  such  a  life  should  never  cease ! 


99 


XLIII. 
TO   THE   CICADA 

i. 

We  may  well  pronounce  thee  happy, 
Oh,  Cicada  !  that  on  tree-tops, 
Having  drunk  thy  little  dew-draught, 
Like  a  king  enthroned  thou  singest. 
All  thine  own  are  things  around  thee ; 
In  the  fields  whate'er  thou  viewest, 
And  whate'er  the  wood  produces. 
Thou  a  friend  art  to  the  tiller, 
Doing  harm  to  naught  and  no  one ; 
And  esteemed  thou  art  of  mortals, 
The  sweet  harbinger  of  summer. 
And  the  Muses  truly  love  thee : 
And  thou  art  loved  of  Phoibos, 
For  thy  clear-toned  voice  he  gave  thee. 
And  with  age  thou  dost  not  wither, 
Loving  song,  earth-born  and  prudent ; 


100 


With  nor  flesh,  nor  blood,  nor  sorrow, 
To  the  gods  thou  'it  nearly  equal. 

—  ARNOLD. 


AN   DIE    CACADA 

Selig  bist  due,  liebe  kleine, 
Die  du  auf  der  Baume  Zweigen, 
Von  geringem  Trank  begeistert, 
Singend,  wie  ein  Konig  lebest ! 
Dir  gehoret  eigen  Alles, 
Was  du  auf  den  Feldern  siehest, 
Alles,  was  die  Stunden  bringen ; 
Lebest  unter  Ackersleuten, 
Ihre  Freundin,  unbeschadigt 
Du  den  Sterblichen  Verehrte 
Sussen  Fruhlings  susser  Bote  ! 
Ja,  dich  lieben  alle  Musen, 
Phobus  selber  muss  dich  lieben 
Gaben  dir  die  Silberstimme, 
Dich  ergreifet  nie  das  Alter, 


XV 

I 


i 


101 


Weise,  zarte,  Dichterfreundin, 
Ohne  Fleisch  und  Blut  Geborne, 
Leidenlose  Erdentochter, 
Fast  den  Gottern  zu  vergleichen. 

—  GOETHE. 

XLIV. 
A    DREAM 

i. 

I  dreamt  that  I  was  running 
With  wings  upon  my  shoulders ; 
And  that  Eros,  having  lead-weights 
On  his  pretty  little  ankles, 
Ran  after  me  and  caught  me. 
Say,  what  might  this  dream  betoken  ? 
As  for  me,  I  think  that  having 
In  so  many  loves  been  tangled, 
And  from  all  escaped  in  safety, 
By  this  new  one  I  am  fettered. 

—  ARNOLD. 


102 


As  I  late  in  slumber  lay, 

Winged  methought  I  ran  away, 

But  Love  —  his  feet  clogged  with  lead  — 

As  thus  up  and  down  I  fled, 

Following  caught  me  instantly  : 

What  may  this  strange  dream  imply  ? 

What  but  this  ?  —  that  in  my  heart 

Tho'  a  thousand  Loves  had  part, 

I  shall  now  —  their  snares  declined  — 

To  this  only  be  confined  ! 


XLV. 
THE   DARTS   OF   EROS 


Once  the  husband  of  Kythera, 
At  his  Lemnian  forges  working, 
Took  some  steel,  and  'gan  to  fashion 
For  the  Loves  their  pointed  arrows. 


103 


And  then  Kypris  took  some  honey, 
And  she  tipt  the  points  with  sweetness ; 
But  by  Eros  gall  was  mingled. 
From  the  war-field  then  came  Ares, 
And  his  heavy  spear  he  brandished 
At  the  darts  of  Eros  mocking. 
But  said  Eros :  "  This  is  heavy ; 
If  thou  try,  so  wilt  thou  find  it." 
And  the  god  received  the  arrow ; 
And  Kythera  smiled  to  see  it. 
Then  said  Ares,  sighing :  —  "  Truly 
It  is  heavy ;  take  it  from  me." 
But  said  Eros  :  "  Better  keep  it." 

XLVI. 
GOLD 

Not  to  love  indeed  is  painful ; 
And  to  love  is  also  painful ; 
But  the  painfullest  of  all  is 
For  a  lover  to  be  slighted. 


104 


But  with  Eros  birth  avails  not ; 
And  scorned  are  worth  and  wisdom, 
And  wealth  alone  regarded. 
May  he  for  ever  perish 
Who  loved  the  first  for  money. 
Through  this  there  is  no  brother ; 
Through  this  there  are  no  parents ; 
Through  this  are  war  and  slaughter. 
But  the  worst  is  that  we  lovers 
Through  this  are  doomed  to  perish. 


XLVII. 
ON   A    GAY    OLD   MAN 

i. 

How  I  love  the  festive  boy, 
Tripping  with  the  dance  of  joy  ! 
How  I  love  the  mellow  sage, 
Smiling  through  the  veil  of  age  ! 


105 


And  whene'er  this  man  of  years 
In  the  dance  of  joy  appears, 
Age  is  on  his  temples  hung, 
But  his  heart  —  his  heart  is  young ! 

—  MOORE. 
ii. 

I  love  a  cheerful  old  man ; 
I  love  a  dancing  young  man. 
But  when  an  old  man  dances 
His  looks  may  show  him  aged, 
But  his  spirits  prove  him  youthful. 

—  ARNOLD. 

XLVIII. 
WINE   THE    HEALER 

Who  his  cups  can  stoutly  bear, 
In  his  cups  despiseth  fear, 
In  his  cups  can  nimbly  dance, 
Him  Lyaeus  will  advance : 


106 


Nectar  of  us  mortals,  wine, 

The  glad  offspring  of  the  vine, 

Screened  with  leaves,  preserved  within 

The  plump  grape's  transparent  skin, 

In  the  body  all  diseases, 

In  the  soul  all  grief  appeases. 


XLIX. 


Nay,  but  who  this  sea  hath  fashioned  ? 
Nay,  but  what  inspired  cunning  ? 
Was  it  o'er  the  discus  poured  forth  ? 
Even  waves  upon  the  sea's  back  ? 
And  what  mind  to  the  gods  uplifted 
Could  upon  the  sea  have  graven 
The  white  and  dainty  Kypris, 
From  whom  the  Blest  have  being  ? 


He  hath  drawn  the  goddess  naked ; 
Only,  what  it  were  not  lawful 
To  behold,  with  waves  he  covers. 
And  floating  gently  forward, 
Like  a  spray  of  whitest  sea-wool, 
In  the  smooth  and  tranquil  water, 
As  she  plunges  with  her  body, 
She  drives  the  splash  before  her  ; 
And  just  where  her  rosy  bosom 
From  her  tender  neck  is  parted 
She  divides  the  surging  billows. 
In  the  middle  of  the  furrow 
She  appeareth  through  the  water 
Like  a  violet-circled  lily. 
And  along  the  silver  billow, 
Upon  leaping  dolphins  mounted, 
There  are  Himeros  and  Eros, 
At  the  wiles  of  mortals  mocking. 
And  a  circling  band  of  fishes, 
Amid  the  waters  scattered, 
Round  Pafia's  body  gambol, 
To  make  her  smile  in  swimming. 


1 08 


L. 

THE   ROSE 

i. 

While  we  invoke  the  wreathed  spring, 
Resplendent  rose !  to  thee  we  '11  sing ; 
Resplendent  rose !  the  flower  of  flowers, 
Whose     breath     perfumes      Olympus' 

bowers ; 

Whose  virgin  blush,  of  chastened  dye, 
Enchants  so  much  our  mortal  eye, 
When  Pleasure's  bloomy  season  glows, 
The  Graces  love  to  twine  the  rose; 
The  rose  is  warm  Dione's  bliss, 
And  flushes  like  Dione's  kiss  ! 
Oft  has  the  poet's  magic  tongue 
The  rose's  fair  luxuriance  sung ; 
And  long  the  Muses,  heavenly  maids, 
Have  reared  it  in  their  tuneful  shades. 


109 


When,  at  the  early  glance  of  morn, 
It  sleeps  upon  the  glittering  thorn, 
'T  is  sweet  to  dare  the  tangled  fence, 
To  cull  the  timid  floweret  thence, 
And  wipe,  with  tender  hand,  away 
The  tear  that  on  its  blushes  lay  ! 
'T  is  sweet  to  hold  the  infant  stems, 
Yet  dropping  with  Aurora's  gems, 
And  fresh  inhale  the  spicy  sighs 
That  from  the  weeping  buds  arise. 
When  revel  reigns,  when  mirth  is  high, 
And  Bacchus  beams  in  every  eye, 
Our  rosy  fillets  scent  exhale, 
And  fill  with  balm  the  fainting  gale ! 
Oh,  there  is  naught  in  nature  bright, 
Where  roses  do  not  shed  their  light ! 
When  morning  paints  the  orient  skies, 
Her  fingers  burn  with  roseate  dyes ; 
The  nymphs  display  the  rose's  charms, 
It  mantles  o'er  their  graceful  arms, 
Through  Cytherea's  form  it  glows, 
And  mingles  with  the  living  snows. 


The  rose  distils  a  healing  balm, 
The  beating  pulse  of  pain  to  calm ; 
Preserves  the  cold  inurned  clay, 
And  mocks  the  vestige  of  decay  : 
And  when,  at  length,  in  pale  decline, 
Its  florid  beauties  fade  and  pine, 
Sweet  as  in  youth,  its  balmy  breath 
Diffuses  odour  e'en  in  death ! 
Oh !  whence  could  such  a  plant  have 

sprung  ? 

Attend  —  for  thus  the  tale  is  sung. 
When,  humid,  from  the  silvery  stream. 
Effusing  beauty's  warmest  beam 
Venus  appeared,  in  flushing  hues, 
Mellowed  by  Ocean's  briny  dews ; 
When,  in  the  starry  courts  above, 
The  pregnant  brain  of  mighty  Jove 
Disclosed  the  nymph  of  azure  glance, 
The    nymph    who    shakes    the    martial 

lance  \*"+* 

Then,  then,  in  strange  eventful  hour, 
The  earth  produced  an  infant  flower, 


Which  sprung,  with  blushing  tinctures 

dressed, 

And  wantoned  o'er  its  parent  breast. 
The  gods  beheld  this  brilliant  birth, 
And  hailed  the  Rose,  the  boon  of  earth ! 
With  nectar  drops,  a  ruby  tide, 
The  sweetly  orient  buds  they  dyed, 
And  bade  them  bloom,  the  flowers  divine 
Of  him  who  sheds  the  teeming  vine ; 
And  bade  them  on  the  spangled  thorn 
Expand  their  bosoms  to  the  morn. 

—  MOORE. 

ii. 

In  the  garland-bearing  Spring-time, 
Of  the  rose  I  sing  the  praises  ; 
And  do  thou,  my  friend,  sing  with  me. 
Of  the  gods  it  is  the  incense } 
The  delight  it  is  of  mortals ; 
The  adornment  of  the  Graces 
In  the  Loves'  all-flowery  season ; 
And  the  toy  of  Afrodita. 


112 


And  the  charm  it  is  of  fable, 

And  the  favourite  of  the  Muses. 

And  't  is  sweet  to  him  who  finds  it, 

Amid  the  thorny  by-ways  ; 

And  't  is  sweet  to  him  who  takes  it 

In  his  tender  hands  to  cherish, 

And  uplifts  the  flower  of  Eros. 

To  the  sage  too  it  is  welcome, 

At  all  feasts  and  private  tables, 

And  the  festivals  of  Bacchos. 

For  without  the  rose  what  were  there  ? 

Eros  is  rosy-fingered ; 

And  the  nymphs  are  rosy-armed  too ; 

And  the  bards  say  Afrodita 

Has  a  skin  of  rosy  colour. 

To  the  rich  man  brings  it  comfort, 

To  the  dead  it  gives  assistance. 

And  to  time  it  bids  defiance ; 

And  the  nleasant  age  of  roses 

Still  retains  its  youthful  odour. 

Of  its  origin  now  sing  we. 

What  time  produced  by  Pontos 


WK, 


Was  the  dew-besprent  Kythera 

From  the  foam  of  azure  billows ; 

And  the  war-exciting  Pallas 

From  his  head  when  Zeus  gave  birth  to, 

And  startled  all  Olympos ; 

With  a  crop  of  wondrous  roses, 

Then  the  earth  spontaneous  sprouted, 

A  many-tinted  marvel. 

And  the  host  of  blest  Immortals, 

To  perfect  the  rose  imbued  it 

With  their  nectar,  and  they  bade  it 

On  the  thorn-bush  grow,  the  honoured 

And  immortal  plant  of  Bacchos. 

—  ARNOLD. 

LI. 
THE   VINTAGE 

Sabled  by  the  solar  beam, 
Not  the  fiery  clusters  teem, 
In  osier  baskets,  borne  along 
By  all  the  festal  vintage  throng 


114 


Of  rosy  youths  and  virgins  fair, 
Ripe  as  the  mellow  fruits  they  bear. 
Now,    now    they    press    the    pregnant 

grapes, 

And  now  the  captive  stream  escapes, 
In  fervid  tide  of  nectar  gushing, 
And  for  its  bondage  proudly  blushing ! 
While,  round  the  vat's  impurpled  brim, 
The  choral  song,  the  vintage  hymn 
Of  rosy  youths  and  virgins  fair, 
Steals  on  the  cloyed  and  panting  air, 
Mark,  how  they  drink,  with  all  their 

eyes, 

The  orient  tide  that  sparkling  flies  j 
The  infant  balm  of  all  their  fears, 
The  infant  Bacchos,  born  in  tears ! 
When  he,  whose  verging  years  decline 
As  deep  into  the  vale  as  mine, 
When  he  inhales  the  vintage  spring, 
His  heart  is  fire,  his  foot  's  a-wing; 
And,  as  he  flies,  his  hoary  hair 
Plays  truant  with  the  wanton  air ! 


«$ 


While  the  warm  youth,  whose  wishing 

soul 

Has  kindled  o'er  the  inspiring  bowl, 
Impassioned  seeks  the  shadowy  grove, 
Where,  in  the  tempting  guise  of  love, 
Reclining  sleeps  some  witching  maid, 
Whose  sunny  charms,  but  half  displayed, 
Blush  through  the  bower,  that,  closely 

twined, 

Excludes  the  kisses  of  the  wind  ! 
The  virgin  wakes,  the  glowing  boy 
Allures  her  to  the  embrace  of  joy ; 
Swears    that    the    herbage   heaven    has 

spread 

Was  sacred  as  the  nuptial  bed ; 
That  laws  should  never  bind  desire, 
And  love  was  nature's  holiest  fire ! 
The  virgin  weeps,  the  virgin  sighs ; 
He  kissed  her  lips,  he  kissed  her  eyes ; 
The    sigh    was    balm,    the    tear    was 

dew, 
They  only  raised  his  flame  anew. 


116 


And  oh !  he  stole  the  sweetest  flower 
That  ever  bloomed  in  any  bower ! 
Such  is  the  madness  wine  imparts, 
Whene'er  it  steals  on  youthful  hearts. 


LII. 
ON   HIMSELF 

When  I  see  the  young  men  play, 
Young  methinks  I  am  as  they ; 
And  my  aged  thoughts  laid  by, 
To  the  dance  with  joy  I  fly : 
Come,  a  flowery  chaplet  lend  me ; 
Youth  and  mirthful  thoughts  attend  me ; 
Age  be  gone,  we  '11  dance  among 
Those  that  young  are,  and  be  young : 
Bring  some  wine,  boy,  fill  about ; 
You  shall  see  the  old  man  's  stout ; 
Who  can  laugh  and  tipple  too, 
And  be  mad  as  well  as  you. 


117 


LIII. 
LOVE'S    MARK 

i. 

Horses  plainly  are  descried 

By  the  mark  upon  their  side : 

Parthians  are  distinguished 

By  the  mitres  on  their  head : 

But  from  all  men  else  a  lover 

I  can  easily  discover, 

For  upon  his  easy  breast 

Love  his  brand-mark  hath  imprest. 

—  STANLEY. 

n. 

Your  horses  on  their  hip-joints 
A  certain  brand-mark  carry ; 
And  Parthians  may  by  all  men 
Be  known  by  their  tiaras. 


118 


So  I  when  I  see  lovers 
At  once  can  recognise  them, 
For  a  subtle  mark  they  carry 
Of  all  their  inward  feelings. 

—  ARNOLD. 


LIV. 
THE   LYRE   OF   HOMER 


Give  me  the  lyre  of  Homer, 
But  without  its  chord  of  battle. 
And  the  regulation  goblets 
Bring  with  the  laws  together, 
That  tipsily  I  may  gambol ; 
Yet  still  with  moderation. 
To  the  lyre  so  gaily  singing 
I  '11  join  the  festive  carol. 

—  ARNOLD. 


119 


II. 

Bring  me  hither  Homer's  lute 

Taught    with    mirth  —  not    wars  —  to 

suit. 

Reach  a  full  cup,  that  I  may 
All  the  laws  of  wine  obey, 
Drink  and  dance  and  to  the  lyre 
Sing  what  Bacchos  shall  inspire. 

—  STANLEY. 


LV. 
INSTRUCTIONS  TO  A  PAINTER 


Prithee  now,  thou  best  of  painters, 
To  the  lyric  Muse  come  listen. 
Paint  for  me  the  sportive  Bacchae 
On  their  double  pipes  shrill  blowing ; 


120 


And  paint  me  too  the  cities, 
The  joyous  and  the  laughing ; 
And  if  the  wax  be  able, 
Paint  me  the  laws  of  lovers. 

—  ARNOLD, 

n. 

Best  of  painters,  come,  pursue 
What  our  Muse  invites  thee  to, 
And  Lyaeus  whose  shrill  flute 
Vies  with  her  harmonious  lute ; 
Draw  me  a  full  city,  where 
Several  shapes  of  mirth  appear ; 
And  the  laws  of  love,  if  cold 
Wax  so  great  a  flame  can  hold  ! 

—  STANLEY. 


121 


LVI. 
SPRING 

Pleasant  't  is  abroad  to  stray 
Thro'  the  meadow  deep  in  hay, 
Where  soft  zephyrs,  breathing  low, 
Odorous  sweets  around  us  throw ; 
Pleasant,  where  the  gadding  vine 
Weaves  a  safe  shade,  to  recline 
With  some  dainty  girl  whose  breast 
Cypris  wholly  hath  possest. 

LVII. 
UPON   CUPID 


As  lately  I  a  garland  bound, 
'Mongst  roses  I  there  Cupid  found; 
I  took  him,  put  him  in  my  cup, 
And  drunk  with  wine,  I  drank  him  up. 


122 


Hence  then  it  is  that  my  poor  breast 
Could  never  since  find  any  rest. 

—  STANLEY. 

n. 

As  I  once  in  wanton  play, 
Binding  up  a  chaplet  lay, 
Mid  the  roses  on  the  ground 
Cupid  fast  asleep,  I  found. 
Straightway,  by  his  wings,  well-pleased, 
I  tne  little  archer  seized, 
Who  so  oft  had  vexed  my  soul, 
And  within  my  flowing  bowl 
Plunged  him  deep,  then  swallowed  up, 
Him,  and  all  that  filled  the  cup. 

—  COWLEY. 


HERE  END  THE  ANACREONTICS 


123 


A   MAENAD 

Often,  on  the  mountain  height, 

When  the  gay  and  solemn  rite 

Of  the  revels,  with  their  myriad  voices, 

The  immortal  Gods  rejoices, 

Dost  thou  bring  thy  pail  of  gold  — 

Such  a  mighty  vessel  as  the  shepherds 

hold  — 

And  with  white  hands  dost  thou  press 
From  the  full  dugs  of  the  lioness      flB 
Milk,  a  noble,  noble  cheese  to  make, 
Round,  unfailing,  shining  white  ! 

—  From  Alcman  by  N.  H.  D. 


ODE   II. 

Blest  as  the  immortal  Gods  is  he 
The  Youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while, 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 


'T  was  this  deprived  my  Soul  of  Rest, 
And  raised  such  Tumults  in  my  Breast ; 
For  while  I  gazed,  in  Transport  tost, 
My   Breath   was  gone,  my  Voice  was 
lost: 

My  Bosom  glowed ;  the  subtle  Flame 
Ran  quick  thro'  all  my  vital  Frame ; 
O'er  my  dim  Eyes  a  darkness  hung ; 
My  Ears  with  hollow  Murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  Damps  my  Limbs  were  chilled, 
My  Blood  with  gentle  Horrors  thrilled ; 
My  feeble  Pulse  forgot  to  play ; 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

—  SAPPHO. 


125 


VIRTUE 

S1MONIDES 
I. 

'T  is  said  that  Virtue  dwells  on  high, 
Mid  rocky  steeps,  that  seek  the  sky, 
Where  o'er  a  hallowed  realm  she  holds 

her  sway. 

No  mortal  eye  her  form  hath  met, 
Save  his,  from  whose  heart  galling  sweat 
Breaks  out,  and  wins  to  manhood's  top 
the  way. 

—  G.  BOHN. 


n. 

Virtue  delights  her  home  to  keep, 
Say  the  wise  of  the  olden  time, 

High  on  a  rugged,  rocky  steep, 
Which  man  may  hardly  climb. 


126 


And  there  a  pure,  bright,  shining  band, 
Her  ministers,  around  her  stand. 
No  mortal  man  may  ever  look 

That  form  august  to  see, 
Until  with  patient  toil  he  brook 

The  sweat  of  mental  agony, 
Which  all  must  do,  who  reach  that  goal, 
The  perfect  manhood  of  the  soul. 

—  HAY. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE 

PALLADAS 

Life  is  an  unsafe  voyage,  where  we  're 
tost 

And  suffer  more  than  those  in  ship- 
wrecks lost. 

But  should  we  Fortune  take  the  helm  to 
guide, 

Still  is  the  bark  oft  strained  from  side  to 
side. 


127 


Some  lucky  onward  sail ;  and  back  some 

fall; 
One  port  beneath  the  earth  is  reached  by 

all. 


A  RUINED  CITY 

AGATHIAS 

O  city,  where  are  those  walls  of  thine, 
And  thy  temples  rich  with  slaughtered 

kine  ? 
And  where  are  the  perfumes,  the  vest  of 

gold, 

That  the  Paphian  queen  adorn  ? 
And  where  the  image,  thou  hadst  of  old, 

Of  thy  native  Triton-born  ? 
The    toils   of  War,  and    the    ruins  of 

Time,  and  the  might  of  Destiny, 
Have  seized  on  all,  and  brought  in  their 

stead  far  different  hap  to  thee. 


128 


Thus  far  bitter  Envy    hath  conquered 
thee. 

But  alone  survives  thy  name ; 
And  envy  itself  shall  conquered  be ; 

For  it  cannot  hide  thy  fame. 


THE  DIVINE  SPARK 

ASCLEPIADES 

Young  Didyme,  in  her  youth  and  beauty's 

glory, 
Taught  me  to  love  her,  I  kindled  at 

love's  fire ; 
Now  love's  sky  grows  dark,  and  old,  and 

weary  of  life's  story, 
Still  the  dying  light  of  love  inflames 
my  love's  desire  ! 


129 


THE  PLANE  AND  THE  VINE 

ANTIPATER   OF    SIDON 

See  yonder  blushing  vine-tree  grows, 

And  clasps  a  dry  and  withered  plane, 
And  round  its  youthful  tendrils  throws, 

A  shelter  from  the  wind  and  rain. 
That  sapless  trunk  in  former  time 

Gave  covert  from  the  noon-tide  blaze, 
And  taught  the  infant  shoot  to  climb, 

That  now  the  pious  debt  repays. 
E'en  so,  kind  powers,  a  partner  give 

To  share  in  my  prosperity, 
Hang  on  my  strength,  while  yet  I  live, 

And  do  me  honour,  when  I  die. 


130 


WISHING 

UNKNOWN 

It 's  oh !  to  be  a  wild  wind,  when  my 

lady  's  in  the  sun  •, 
She  'd  just  unbind  her  handkerchief,  and 

take  me  breathing  in. 
It 's  oh  !  to  be  a  red  rose,  just  a  faintly 

blushing  one, 
So  she  'd  pull  me  with  her  hand,  and  to 

her  snowy  breast  I  'd  win. 


ANACREON'S   TOMB 

SIMONIDES 
I. 

All-cheering  vine,  with  purple  clusters 

crowned, 
Whose  tendrils,  curling  o'er  the  humble 

mound 


131 


Beneath  whose   turf  Anacreon's   relics 

rest, 
Clasp   the  low  column  rising   o'er  his 

breast, 
Still  may'st  thou  flourish ;  that  the  bard 

divine, 
Who  nightly  sang  the  joys  of  love  and 

wine, 
May  view,  though    sunk   amongst   the 

silent  dead, 

Thy  honours  waving  o'er  his  aged  head ; 
Whilst  on  his  ashes  in  perennial  rills, 
Soothing  his  shade,  thy   nectared  juice 

distils ; 
Sweet  juice  !  but  sweeter  still  the  words 

of  fire, 
That  breathed  responsive  to  his  tuneful 

lyre. 

—  W.  SHEPARD. 


II. 

Sweet  queen  of  autumn,  mother  of  the 

wine, 
Trail  thy  green  tresses,  sorrow-soothing 

vine, 
Thy  waving  tendrils,  round  the  pillared 

stone, 

Above  the  grave  where  sleeps  Anacreon ; 
That  he,  the  bard  who  led  the   tipsy 

choir 

The  livelong  night,  and  struck  the  joy- 
ous lyre, 
May  yet,  though  dead,  around  his  brows 

entwine 
A  wreath  of  grapes,  a  garland  from  the 

vine. 
Breathe  o'er  his    tomb   thy   sweet   and 

dewy  rain ; 
Who  rests  below  once  waked  a  sweeter 

strain. 

—  R. 


133 


TO  MENANDER 

UNKNOWN 


Behold  Menander,  Siren  of  the  stage, 

Who  charmed,  with  love  allied,  a  happier 
age. 

Light  wanton  wreaths,  that  never  shall 
be  dead, 

Are  curled  luxuriant  round  the  poet's 
head; 

Who  dressed  the  scene  in  colours  bright 
and  gay 

And  breathed  enchantment  o'er  the  liv- 
ing lay. 


134 


HELEN 


PHILODEMUS 

My  Helen  is  little  and  brown ;  but  more 

tender 
Than  the  cygnet's  soft  down  or  the 

plumage  of  doves ; 
And  her  form,  like  the  ivy,  is  graceful 

and  slender, 
Like  the  ivy  entwined  round  the  tree 

that  it  loves. 
Her  voice  —  not  thy  cestus,  O  goddess 

of  pleasure, 

Can  so  melt  with  desire,  or  with  ec- 
stasy burn ; 

Her  kindness  unbounded,  she  gives  with- 
out measure 
To  her  languishing  lover,  and  asks  no 

return. 

Such  a  girl  is  my  Helen  —  then  never, 
ah !  never, 


<8 


135 


Let  my  amorous  heart,  mighty  Venus, 

forget  her; 
Oh,  grant  me  to  keep  my  sweet  mistress 

for  ever  — 
For  ever  —  at  least,  till  you  send  me 

a  better. 

THE    BEGINNING    AND    THE 
END 

UNKNOWN 
I. 

Whence  was  I  born,  and  how  ? 

How  was  I  born,  and  why  ? 
Alas  !  I  nothing  know, 

But,  born,  that  I  must  die. 
From  nothing  I  was  born ; 
To  nothing  must  return. 
The  end  and  the  beginning 

Of  life  is  nothingness  — 


136 


Of  losing,  or  of  winning, 
Of  pleasure,  or  distress. 
Then  give  me  wine  at  least ; 
There  's  nought  left  but  to  feast. 
—  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


n. 

How  born,  and  where,  and  why  ?     To 

go  I  came ; 
And  knowing  nothing,  nothing  learn  I 

can. 
Nothing  I  was  when  born ;  and  still  the 

same 
Nothing  shall  be.     Such  is  the  race 

of  man. 

The  pleasure-loving  cup  of  Bacchus  fill  5 
'T  is  the  sole  antidote  for  every  ill. 

—  GEORGE  BURGES. 


137 


PROT£ 

UNKNOWN 
I. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  my  Prote ;  though 

no  more 
A     sojourner    on    earth's    tempestuous 

shore ; 

Fled  to  the  peaceful  islands  of  the  blest, 
Where  youth  and  love,  for  ever  beaming, 

rest ; 
Or    joyful     wandering     o'er     Elysian 

ground, 
Among  sweet  flowers,  where  not  a  thorn 

is  found. 
No  winter  freezes  there;    no    summer 

fires ; 
No   sickness  weakens;   and  no   labour 

tires. 

No  longer  poverty  or  thirst  oppress, 
Nor  envy  of  man's  boasted  happiness ; 


138 


But  spring  for  ever  glows  serenely  bright, 
And  bliss  immortal  hails  the  heavenly 
light. 

—  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


n. 

Prote,  thou  art  not  dead ;  but  thou  hast 
past 

To  better  lands,  where  pleasures  ever 
last, 

To  bound  in  joy  amidst  the  fairest 
flowers 

Of  the  blest  isles,  Elysium's  blooming 
bowers : 

Thee  nor  the  summer's  heat,  nor  win- 
ter's chill, 

Shall  e'er  annoy,  apart  from  every  ill ; 

Nor  sickness,  hunger,  thirst  again  dis- 
tress. 

Oh  !  is  there  aught  on  earth  to  equal 
this  ? 


139 


Contented  thou  —  remote  from  human 

woes  — 
In  the  pure  light,  which  from  Olympus 

flows. 

—  HAY. 


WITH  A  BOUQUET 

RUFINUS 
I. 

I  send  to  thee,  my  Rhodocle,  this  wreath 

entwined  with  flowers, 
Which  I  with  mine  own  hands  have  newly 

culled  among  the  bowers ; 
The  lily  and  the  rose,  and  that  sweet 

bud  that  woos  the  wind, 
With    the   violet   and    dew-besprinkled 

daffodil  combined. 


140 


When  then  the  chaplet  shades  thy  brow, 
cast  haughty  looks  away  ; 

For  thy  beauty,  blooming  like  the 
flowers,  will  like  the  flowers  decay. 
—  F.  T.  PRICE. 


n. 

This  crown  of  fairest  flowers,  my  Rho- 

docle, 
By  mine  own  fingers  wreathed,  I  send  to 

thee; 

The  lily,  an  anemone  moist  with  dew, 
The  rose,  narcissus,  and  the  violet  blue. 
Then  put  it  on,  and,  while  it  gems  thy 

hair, 

Be  not  vainglorious  overmuch,  my  fair; 
Since,  like  thyself,  the  flowers  that  crown 

thy  brow, 
Bloom  for  awhile  and  die  —  the  flowers 

and  thou. 

—  HAY. 


>i\ 

I 


141 


WATER  AND   WINE 

Great  Bacchus,  born  in  thunder  and  in 

fire, 

By  native  heat  asserts  his  dreadful  sire. 
Nourished  near  shady  hills  and  cooling 

streams, 
He  to  the  Nymphs  avows  his  amorous 

flames. 

To  all  the  brethren  at  the  Bell  and  Vine, 
The  moral  says,  "  Mix  water  with  your 

wine." 

A   DREAM   OF  VENUS 

BION 

I  dreamt  I  saw  great  Venus  by  me  stand, 
Leading  a  nodding  infant  by  the  hand ; 
And  that  she  said  to  me  familiarly  — 
"Take   Love,  and  teach  him   how   to 
play  to  me." 


142 


She  vanished  then.     And  I,  poor  fool, 

must  turn 
To  teach  the  boy,  as  if  he  wished  to 

learn. 
I  taught   him  all  the  pastoral  songs  1 

knew 
And  used  to  sing ;  and  I  informed  him, 

too, 
How  Pan  found  out  the  pipe,  Pallas  the 

flute, 

Phffibus  the  lyre,  and  Mercury  the  lute. 
But  not  a  jot  for  all  my  words  cared  he, 
But  lo  !  fell  singing  his  love-songs  to  me ; 
And  told  me  of  the  loves  of  gods  and 

men, 

And  of  his  mother's  doings ;  and  so  then 
I  forgot  all  I  taught  him  for  my  part, 
But  what  he  taught  me  I  learnt  all  by 

heart. 


143 


HOPE 

THEOGNIS 

For  human  nature  Hope  remains  alone 
Of  all  the  deities ;  the  rest  are  flown. 
Faith  is  departed;  Truth  and  Honour 

dead; 

And  all  the  Graces  too,  my  friends,  are  fled 
The  scanty  specimens  of  living  worth, 
Dwindled    to   nothing,  and  extinct  on 

earth. 
Yet  whilst  I  live  and  view  the  light  of 

heaven, 
Since  Hope  remains  and  never  has  been 

driven 
From  the  distracted  world  —  the  single 

scope 

Of  my  devotion  is  to  worship  Hope. 
When  hecatombs  are  slain,  and  altars 

burn, 
When  all  the  deities  adored  in  turn, 


144 


Let  Hope  be  present;  and  with  Hope, 

my  friend, 

Let  every  sacrifice  commence  and  end. 
Yes,  Insolence,  Injustice,  every  crime, 
Rapine  and  Wrong,  may  prosper  for  a 

time; 

Yet  shall  they  travel  on  to  swift  decay, 
Who  tread  the  crooked  path  and  hollow 

wayv 


HASTE  MAKES  WASTE 

THEOGNIS 

Schemes  unadvisable  and  out  of  reason 
Are  best  adjourned.     Wait  for  a  proper 

season. 

Time  and  a  fair  conjuncture  govern  all. 
Hasty  ambition  hurries  to  a  fall ; 
A  fall  predestined  and  ordained  by  heaven. 
By  a  judicial  blindness  madly  driven, 


Mistaking  and   confounding   good    and 

evil, 
Men  lose  their  senses,  as  they  lose  their 

level. 

A  SOLDIER'S   WEALTH 

HYBRIAS   OF    CRETE 
I. 

My  wealth  is  here  :  the  sword  and  spear ; 

The  breast-defending  shield ; 
With  this  I  plough,  with  this  I  sow, 

With  this  I  reap  the  field, 
With  this  I  tread  the  luscious  grape, 

And  drink  the  blood-red  wine; 
And  slaves  around  in  order  wait. 

And  all  are  counted  mine. 
But  he,  who  will  not  rear  the  lance 

Upon  the  battle-field, 
Nor  sway  the  sword,  nor  stand  behind 

The  breast-defending  shield, 


146 


On  lowly  knee  must  worship  me, 

With  servile  kiss  adored, 
And  peal  the  cry  of  homage  high, 

And  hail  me  mighty  lord. 

—  SIR  DANIEL  SANDFORD. 


Much  riches  these  me  yield, 

My  gallant  spear  and  sword, 
And  my  brave  hide-covered  shield, 

The  bulwark  of  its  lord. 
'T  is  thus  I  reap  and  plough ; 

'T  is  thus  the  sweet  grape  tread ; 
'T  is  thus  the  household  bow, 

And  call  me  lord  and  head. 
By  those,  who  will  not  dare 

The  spear  and  sword  to  wield, 
And  the  bulwark  will  not  bear 

Of  the  brave  hide-covered  shield, 
Down  on  their  knees  before  me, 

While  one  and  all  I  bring, 


m 


'47 


Must  as  their  liege  adore  me, 
And  hail  me  mighty  king. 


—  HAY. 


HEALTH 


ARIPHRON    OF    SICYON 


Health,  brightest  visitant  from  heaven, 

Grant  me  with  thee  to  rest ; 
For  the  short  term  by  nature  given, 

Be  thou  my  constant  guest. 
For  all  the  pride  that  wealth  bestows ; 
The  pleasure  that  from  children  flows ; 
Whate'er  we  court  in  regal  state, 
That  makes  men  covet  to  be  great ; 
Whatever  sweet  we  hope  to  find 

In  love's  delightful  snare ; 
Whatever  good  by  heaven  assigned, 

Whatever  pause  from  care; 
All  flourish  at  thy  smile  divine, 
The  spring  of  loveliness  is  thine ; 


148 


And  every  joy  that  warms  our  hearts, 
With  thee  approaches  and  departs. 

—  ROBERT  BLAND. 


n. 

Hygeia,  thou    most   blest   of  heavenly 

powers, 
Oh !  may  I  spend  my  life's  remaining 

hours 
With    thee;    and    deign    thou,   goddess 

ever  blest, 
To  dwell  with  me,  a  well-pleased  fellow 

guest. 

Since  all  the  joys,  which  wealth  or  off- 
spring brings, 
The  pomp,  the  power,  the  circumstance 

of  kings, 
Whereby  the  monarch  vies  with  gods 

above, 
The  eager,  furtive,  toil-won  joys  of  love, 


I.'**' 


149 


All  the  delights,  which  heaven  to  man 

may  doom, 

Blessed  Hygeia,  live  with  thee  and  bloom. 
Bright  shines  the  Graces'  spring,  when 

thou  art  near, 

And  happy  hours  without  thee  disappear. 

—  HAY. 


DANAE 

SIMONIDES 
I. 

When  the  wind  resounding  high 
Blustered  from  the  northern  sky  j 
When  the  waves  in  stronger  tide 
Dashea  against  the  vessel's  side, 
Her  care-worn  cheek  with  tears  bedewed, 
Her  sleeping  infant  Danae  viewed ; 
And  trembling  still  with  new  alarms, 
Around  him  cast  a  mother's  arms. 


150 


My  child,  what  woes  doth  Danae  weep  ! 
But  thy  young  limbs  are  wrapt  in  sleep. 
In  that  poor  nook  all  sad  and  dark, 
While  lightnings  play  around  our  bark, 
Thy  quiet  bosom  only  knows 
The  heavy  sigh  of  deep  repose. 


ANACREON'S  TOMB 

Grow,  clustering  ivy,  where  Anacreon 
lies; 

There  may  soft  buds  from  purple  mead- 
ows rise : 

Gush,  milky  springs,  the  poet's  turf  to 
lave, 

And  fragrant  wine  flow  joyous  from  his 
grave. 

Thus  charmed  his  bones  shall  press  their 
narrow  bed, 

If  aught  of  pleasure  ever  reach  the  dead. 


THE  FOOD   OF  SONG 

EVENUS 

Honey-nurtured  Attic  maiden, 

Wherefore  to  thy  brood  dost  wing 
With  the  shrill  Cicada  laden  ? 

'T  is  like  thee  a  prattling  thing. 
'T  is  a  sojourner  and  stranger, 

And  a  summer-child,  like  thee ; 
*T  is,  like  thee,  a  winged  ranger 

Of  the  air's  immensity. 
From  thy  bill  this  instant  fling  her ; 

'T  is  not  proper,  just,  or  good, 
That  a  little  ballad-singer 

Should  be  killed  for  singer's  food. 


152 


THE   WIND   OF  DEATH 

UNKNOWN 


Whether  from  Athens  thou  began, 

Or  Meroe  thy  road, 
One  trodden  path  still  points  the  way 

Unto  the  joyless  god. 
And  though  an  exile's  death  thou  die, 

And  see  thy  home  no  more, 
Blows  from  each  clime  a  steady  gale 

Swift  to  the  Stygian  shore. 

—  R.  TWEDDEL. 

ii. 

Straight  is  our  passage  to  the  grave, 
Whether  from  Meroe's  burning  wave, 

Or  Attic  groves  we  roam  : 
Grieve  not  in  distant  lands  to  die ; 
Our  vessels  seek  from  every  sky 

Death's  universal  home. 

—  FRANCIS  HODGSON. 


153 


THE   PATH   OF   LIFE 

POSIDIPPUS 

What  path  of  life  would  man  desire  to 

keep  ? 
Wrangling  and  strife  the  forum  yields ; 

at  home 
Are  cares ;   abroad,  incessant  toils ;  the 

deep 
Is    vext    with    storms.       An    exile 

would'st  thou  roam  ? 
If  wealthy,  fears ;  if  needy,  slights  await. 
Would'st  seek  to  wed  ?     Expect  not 

so  to  shun 
The  general  doom.     Would'st  choose  a 

single  state  ? 
In  joyless  gloom  thy  heavy  hours  will 

run. 
Children  are  plagues;  a  childless  life  's 

accurst ; 

Folly's  in   youth;   in  age  fresh   in- 
fancy. 


to 


154 


Never  to  have  been  born,  the  wise  man 

first 

Would  wish ;    and  next,  as  soon  as 
born,  to  die. 

PERSUASIVES    ON   THE 
CONTRARY 

METRODORUS 

In  every  way  of  life  true  pleasure  flows. 
Immortal  fame  from  public  action  grows. 
Within  the  doors  is  found  appeasing  rest ; 
In  fields  the  gifts  of  Nature  are  exprest. 
The  sea  brings  gain.     The  rich  abroad 

provide 
To  blaze  their  names ;    the  poor  their 

wants  to  hide. 
All  households  are  best  governed  by  a 

wife : 
His  cares  are  light,  who  leads  a  single  life. 


155 


Sweet  children  are  delights,  which  mar- 
riage bless ; 

He,  that  hath  none,  disturbs  his  thoughts 
the  less. 

Strong  youth  can  triumph  in  victorious 
deeds ; 

Old  age  the  soul  with  pious  notions  feeds. 

All  states  are  good ;  and  they  are  falsely 
led, 

Who  wish  to  be  unborn,  or  quickly  dead. 


BAD    MEN 


THEOGNIS 

Let  no  persuasive  art  tempt  you  to  place 
Your  confidence  in  crafty  minds  and  base. 
How  can  it  answer?  Will  their  help 

avail, 
When    danger   presses,   and   your   foes 

assail  ? 


The  blessing,  which  the  gods  in  bounty 
send, 

Will  they  consent  to  share  it  with  a 
friend  ? 

No.  To  bestrew  the  waves  with  scat- 
tered grain, 

To  cultivate  the  surface  of  the  main, 

Is  not  a  task  more  absolutely  vain, 

Than  cultivating  such  allies  as  these, 

Fickle,  and  unproductive  as  the  seas. 

Such  are  all  baser  minds.  Never  at 
rest, 

With  new  demands  importunately  prest, 

A  new  pretension  or  a  new  request ; 

Till  foiled  with  the  refusal  of  the 
last, 

They  disavow  their  obligations  past. 

But  brave  and  gallant  hearts  are  cheaply 
gained, 

Faithful  adherents,  easily  retained ; 

Men,  that  will  never  disavow  the  debt 

Of  gratitude,  or  cancel  or  forget. 


157 


-^v- 


Never  engage  with  a  poltroon  or  craven  ; 
Avoid   him,   Kurnus,  as    a    treacherous 

haven ; 
Those  friends  and  hearty  comrades,  as 

you  think, 
Ready  to  join  you,  when  you  feast  and 

drink, 
Those  easy  friends  from  difficulty  shrink. 


WEALTH   AND   INSOLENCE 

THEOGNIS 

Wealth  nurses  Insolence;  and  wealth 
we  find, 

When  coupled  with  a  poor  and  paltry 
mind, 

Is  evermore  with  Insolence  combined. 

Never  in  anger  with  the  meaner  sort 

Be  moved  to  a  contemptuous  harsh  re- 
tort. 


Deriding  their  distresses,  nor  despise 
In  hasty  speech  their  wants  and  miseries. 
Jove  holds  the  balance,  and   the  gods 

dispense 
For  all  mankind  riches  and  indigence. 

TO   THE  SOUL 

ARCHILOCHUS 
I. 

Soul,  oh  !  soul,  when  round  thee  whelm- 
ing 

Cares,  like  mountain  surges,  close, 
Patient  bear  their  mighty  rage,  and 

With  thy  strength  their  strength  op- 
pose. 
Be  a  manly  breast  your  bulwark ; 

Your  defence  firm-planted  feet ; 
So  in  serried  line  of  battle 

Spears  with  calm  composure  meet. 
Yet  in  victory's  golden  hour 

Raise  not  your  proud  vaunts  too  high ; 


159 


Nor  if  vanquished,  meanly  stooping 
Pierce  with  loud  laments  the  sky. 
But  in  prosperous  fortune  so  rejoice,  and 

in  reverses  mourn, 
As  well  knowing  what  is  destined 
For  the  race  of  woman  born. 

—  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


n. 

My  soul,  my  soul,  care-worn,  bereft  of 

rest, 
Arise,  and  front  the  foe  with  dauntless 

breast ; 
Take  thy  firm  stand  amidst  his  fierce 

alarms, 
Secure;    with    inborn    valour    meet    his 

arms. 
Nor,    conquering,    mount    vain-glory's 

glittering  steep ; 
Nor,  conquered,  yield,  fall  down  at  home 

and  weep ; 


1 60 


Await  the  turns  of  life  with  duteous  awe ; 
Know —  Revolution    is   great    Nature's 
law. 

— MARQUIS  OF  WELLESLEY. 


LIFE 


ARCHILOCHUS 


O  Life !  how  can  we  fly  thee, 

Save  through  the  gates  of  Death  ? 
For  cruel,  countless,  are  the  ills 

Encompassing  thy  path. 
Impossible  for  any  one, 
Either  to  suffer  or  to  shun. 
Yet  beautiful  is  Nature 

In  star,  in  earth,  in  sea, 
In  silver  moon,  and  golden  sun ; 

Nought  else  from  care  is  free. 
And  if  with  light  man's  spirit  burns 
Awhile,  the  deeper  gloom  returns. 


161 


TO   MELITE 

RUFINUS 

The  Queen  of  heaven's  bright  eyes  il- 
lume thy  face ; 

Great  Pallas  lends  thine  arms  her  pol- 
ished grace; 

Thetis  thine  ancle's  slender  strength 
bestows, 

And  Venus  in  thy  swelling  bosom  glows. 

Happy  the  lover,  of  thy  sight  possest ; 

Who  listens  to  thy  melting  voice,  thrice 
blest ; 

Almost  a  god,  whose  love  is  met  by 
thine ; 

Who  folds  thee  in  his  arms,  indeed 
divine. 


162 


PRODICE 

i. 

When  blest  I  met  my  Prodice  alone, 
On    the    cold    earth   a   timid   suppliant 

thrown, 
I  clasped  her  beauteous  knees,  and  bade 

her  save 
A    wretch,    at    her   disposal,    from    the 

grave. 
Listening  she  wept.     But  soon  her  tears 

were  dried, 
And  with  soft  hands  she  pushed  me  from 

her  side. 

—  FRANCIS  HODGSON. 


n. 

I  Prodice  found  once  alone,  and  at 
leisure ; 

When  kneeling  I  touched  her  am- 
brosial knee; 


163 


I 


O  pity,  said  I,  a  man  dying,  my  treasure, 
And  save  him  the  breath  of  life,  ha- 
stening to  flee. 

Thus  I  spoke :  and  she  wept.  Soon  the 
weeping  was  o'er ; 

When  she  rose,  and  with  lily  hands 
showed  me  the  door. 

G.    C.    SWAYNE. 


BEAUTY   UNADORNED 

PAULUS    THE    SILENTIARY 
I. 

We  ask  no  flowers  to  crown  the  blush- 
ing rose, 

Nor   glittering   gems    thy    beauteous 
form  to  deck. 

The  pearl,  in  Persia's  precious  gulf  that 
glows, 


Yields  to  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
thy  neck. 

Gold  adds  not  to  the  lustre  of  thy  hair, 

But,  vanquished,  sheds  a  fainter  radi- 
ance there. 

The  Indian  hyacinth's  celestial  hue 
Shrinks  from  the  bright  effulgence  of 
thine  eye, 

The  Paphian  cestus  bathed  thy  lips  in 

dew, 

And   gave   thy   form    ambrosial    har- 
mony. 

My  soul  would  perish  in  the  melting 
gaze, 

But  for  thine  eyes,  where  hope  for  ever 

plays. 

—  ROBERT  BLAND. 

H. 

No  wreath  the  rose  doth  need  to  grace 
her  brow ; 

No  broidered  robe  nor  jewelled  head- 
dress thou. 


I65 


Not   whitest  pearl   can  with   thy  skin 

compare, 
Nor  gold  so  bright  as  thy  loose  flowing 

hair. 

The  loveliest  hyacinth  of  Indian  fields 
To  thy  full-beaming  pupil's  lustre  yields. 
That   dewy  lip,  that   form    of  melting 

mould, 

Thy  magic  girdle,  Venus,  here  behold. 
All  these  undo  me  j  only  in  thine  eyes 
Comfort  I  find;  there  sweet  hope  ever 

lies. 

—  GOLDWIN  SMITH. 

LOVELY  IDA 

PAULUS    THE    SILENTIARY 

When  I  meant,  lovely  Ida,  to  bid  thee 

farewell, 

My    faltering    voice    the    sad    office 
denied ; 


166 


From  my  lips  broken  accents  of  tender- 
ness fell, 
And  I  remained  motionless  close  by 

thy  side. 
Nor  wonder,  sweet  girl,  at  the  baffled 

endeavour ; 
The  pang  of  the  moment,  that  tears 

me  away, 
Can  only  be  equalled  by  that,  which  for 

ever 
Shuts   out    from    my   soul    the   blest 

prospect  of  day. 
Oh  !  Ida,  't  is  thou  art  my  day.    'T  is  to 

thee 
I  look  for  the  light,  that  should  make 

me  rejoice; 
Thy  presence  the  day-spring  of  pleasure 's 

to  me; 
But  raptures  of  paradise  dwell  in  thy 

voice. 

Thy    voice  —  oh !    how    sweeter    than 
aught  that  is  feigned 


Of  Sirens  or  Mermaids,  that  float  on 

the  wave; 

It  holds  all  my  joys,  all  my  passions  en- 
chained, 

And  is  able  alike  to   destroy  me  or 
save. 


mm. 


GREEK   SINGERS 

UNKNOWN 

O  sacred  voice  of  the  Pierian  choir, 

Immortal  Pindar  !   Oh,  enchanting  air, 
Of  sweet  Bacchylides  !     Oh,  rapturous 
lyre, 

Majestic  graces  of  the  Lesbian  fair ! 
Muse  of  Anacreon,  the  gay,  the  young  ! 

Stesichorus,  thy  full  Homeric  stream  ! 
Soft  elegies  by  Cea's  poet  sung ! 

Persuasive  Ibycus,  thy  glowing  theme  ! 
Sword    of   Alcaeus,    that   with   tyrant's 
gore 


168 


tiff* 


Gloriously  painted,   lift'st    thy  point 

so  high  ! 

Ye  tuneful  nightingales,  that  still  deplore 
Your    Alcman,    prince    of    amorous 

poesy  — 
Oh  yet  impart  some  breath  of  heavenly 

fire 
To  him,  who  venerates  the  Grecian  lyre. 


ANACREON   DRUNKEN 

LEONIDAS    OF    TARENTUM 

Come,  see  your  old  Anacreon, 

How,  seated  on  his  couch  of  stone, 

With  silvery  temples  garlanded, 

He  quaffs  the  rich  wine  rosy-red. 

How,  with  flushed  cheek  and  swimming 

eye, 
In  drunken  fashion  from  his  thigh 


169 


He  lets  his  robe  unheeded  steal, 

And  drop  and  dangle  o'er  his  heel. 

One  sandal  's  off,  one  scarce  can  hide 

The  lean  and  shrivelled  foot  inside. 

Old  Anacreon  !  hark,  he  sings 

Still  of  love  to  the  old  harp-strings. 

Still,  Bathylla,  still,  Megiste, 

How  he  coaxed  ye,  how  he  kissed  ye. 

Gentle  Bacchus,  watch  and  wait, 

You  must  watch,  and  hold  him  straight ; 

Hold  him  up ;  for  if  he  fall, 

You  lose  your  boldest  Bacchanal. 


ON  A   CHAPERON 

DIOTIMES    OF    MILETUS 

Guardian  of  yon  blushing  fair, 
Reverend  matron,  tell  me,  why 

You  affect  that  churlish  air, 
Snarling,  as  I  pass  you  by  ? 


170 


I  deserve  not  such  rebuke ; 
All  I  ask  is  but  to  look. 
True,  I  on  her  steps  attend; 

True,  I  cannot  choose  but  gaze ; 
But  I  meant  not  to  offend ; 

Common  are  the  public  ways. 
And  I  need  not  your  rebuke, 
When  I  follow  but  to  look. 
Are  my  eyes  so  much  in  fault, 

That  they  cannot  choose  but  see  ? 
By  the  gods  we  're  homage  taught ; 

Homage  is  idolatry. 
Spare  that  undeserved  rebuke, 
E'en  the  gods  permit  to  look. 


JOY   OF  LIVING 

HEDYLUS 

Drink  we.     Midst  our  flowing  wine, 
Something  new,  or  something  fine, 


171 


Something  witty,  something  gay, 
We  shall  ever  find  to  say. 
Flasks  of  Chian  hither  bring, 
Sprinkling  o'er  me,  whilst  you  sing  — 
"  Jovial  poet,  sport  and  play ; 
Sober  souls  throw  life  away." 


zo£ 

MELEAGER 
I. 

The  snowdrop  peeps  from  every  glade ; 

The  gay  narcissus  proudly  glows  ; 
The  lily  decks  the  mountain  shade, 

Where  blooms  my  fair  —  a  blushing 

rose. 
Ye  meads,  why  vainly  thus  display 

The  buds  that  grace  your  vernal  hour  ? 


172 


For  see  ye  not  my  Zoe  stray 

Amidst  your  sweets,  a  sweeter  flower. 
—  SHEPHERD. 


Now  the  white  violets  bloom,  now  bloom 
the  flowers, 

The  hyacinths  that  delight  in  dewy 
showers ; 

Now  bloom  hill-loving  lilies,  and  the 
rose, 

Love's  and  Persuasion's  flower,  in  blush- 
ing sweetness  glows. 

Zenophile,  thou  heart  enslaver,  say, 

Why  laugh  the  meads  in  all  that  vain 
array 

Of  beauty  ?  since  my  girl  is  lovelier  far, 

Than  sweetly-breathing  garlands  ever  are. 

—  HAY. 


173 


ZENOPHILE 

MELEAGER 

*T  is  a  sweet  strain,  by  Pan  or  Arcady, 
Which    warbles    from  thy  lyre  with 

thrilling  sound, 

Zenophile ;  oh  !  how  can  I  be  free  ? 
Since  Loves  on  every  side  enclose  me 

round, 

Forbidding  me  to  breathe  a  single  hour 
In  peace,  since  first  thy  beauty,  then 

thy  lyre, 
Thy   face,  and    then  —  oh !    words  of 

feeble  power  — 
Thy  perfect  all  has  set  me  all  on  fire. 


LESBIA 

MELEAGER 
I. 

Fill  high  the  goblet ;  fill  it  up ; 

With  Lesbia's  name  divine 
Thrice  uttered  crown  the  sparkling  cup, 

And  sweeten  all  the  wine. 
Tie  round  my  brows  the  rosy  wreath, 

Which  yesterday  we  wove 
With  flowers  that  yet  of  odours  breathe 

In  memory  of  my  love. 
See  how  yon  rose  in  tears  is  drest, 

Her  lovely  form  to  see 
No  longer  folded  on  my  breast, 

As  it  was  wont  to  be. 

—  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 
n. 

Fill  —  give    the    health  —  once    more, 
once  more  — 


175 


Mix  Heliodora's  name  with  wine ; 
The  ruby  juice  untempered  pour, 

And  round  my  brow  the  garland  twine ; 
Memorial  of  the  gift  it  blooms 

With  flowers  that  yesterday  o'ertopt 

their  stems ; 

But  now,  dipt  moist  in  new  perfumes, 
Shed  odour  drops  from  their  anointed 

gems. 
Lo !    the    rose  weeps,  the    lover-loving 

flower, 

To  see  the  nymph  away,  who  shared  my 
bower. 

—  ELTON. 


LOVE'S   DARTS 

MELEAGER 

Ringlets,  that  with  clustering  shade 
The  snow-white  brows  of  Demo  braid ; 


176 


Sandals,  that  with  strict  embrace 
Heliodora's  ancles  grace ; 
Portal  of  Timarion's  bower, 
Besprent  with  many  a  fragrant  shower; 
Lovely  smiles  that  lurking  lie 
In  Anticleia's  sun-bright  eye ; 
Roses,  fresh,  in  earliest  bloom, 
That  Dorothea's  breast  perfume  — 
No  more  Love's  golden  quivers  hold 
Their  feathered  arrows,  as  of  old  9 
But  every  sharp  and  winged  dart 
Has  found  a  quiver  in  my  heart. 


MIGHTY  IS   LOVE 

MELEAGER 

Mighty  is    Love ;    most   mighty ;    once 

again 
I  cry,  most  mighty,  writhing  with  my 

pain, 


177 


And  deeply  groaning ;  who,  for  mischief 

born, 
Mocks   at   our   woes,   and   laughs   our 

wrongs  to  scorn. 
The  cold  blue  wave,  from  which  thy 

mother  came, 
Proud  boy,  should  quench,  not  feed,  that 

cruel  flame. 


THE   CICADA 

MELEAGER 
I. 

Oh !  shrill-voiced  insect,  that  with  dew- 
drops  sweet 

Inebriate,  dost  in  desert  woodland  sing, 
Perched  on  the  spray-top  with  indented 

feet, 

Thy  dusky  body's  echoings,  harp-like, 
ring. 


Come,  dear  Cicada,  chirp  to  all  the  grove, 
The  Nymphs  and  Pan,  a  new  respon- 
sive strain, 
That  I,  in  noonday  sleep,  may  steal  from 

Love, 

Reclined  beneath  the  dark  o'erspread- 
ing  plane. 

—  ELTON. 


ii. 

Loud-sounding  grasshopper,  *t  is  thine, 

with  dewdrops  drunk,  to  fill 
The  speaking  solitudes  afar,  with    thy 

rural  notes  so  shrill ; 
Thou  sitt'st  on  high,  and  ne'er  thy  feet, 

broad,  flat,  and  saw-like,  tire 
In  striking  from  thy  dusky  wings  clear 

notes,  as  from  a  lyre ; 
'Come    then,    some    new   and    sportive 

song,  to  the  Wood-Nymphs  now 

essay, 


179 


Thou   loved    one,   while  thy  rival   Pan 
gives  back  the  alternate  lay ; 

That  Love  may  for  awhile  forbear  to 
pierce  this  heart  of  mine, 

While  I,  in  quest  of  noontide  sleep,  in 
the  plane-tree's  shade  recline. 

—  HAY. 


HELIODORA 

MELEAGER 
I. 

I  '11    wreathe   white   violets ;    with    the 
myrtle  shade 

Bind  soft  narcissus;    and   amidst  them 
braid 

The  laughing   lily ;  with  whose   virgi 
hue 

Shall  blend  bright  crocus,  and  the  hya- 
cinth blue. 


1 80 


There  many  a  rose  shall  interwoven 
shed 

Its  blushing  grace  on  Heliodora's  head, 

And  add  fresh  fragrance,  amorously  en- 
twining 

Her  clustered  locks,  with  spicy  ointments 
shining. 

—  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 

n. 

I  '11  twine  white  violets,  and  the  myrtle 

green  ; 

Narcissus  will  I  twine,  and  lilies  sheen ; 
I  '11  twine  sweet  crocus  and  the  hyacinth 

blue; 
And  last  I  '11  twine  the  rose,  love's  token 

true; 
That  all  may  form  a  wreath  of  beauty, 

meet 
To  deck  my  Heliodora's  tresses  sweet. 

—  GOLDWIN  SMITH. 


181 


OPPORTUNITY 

POSEIDIPPUS 

A.  Whence  did  he  come  ?  and  what  the 

sculptor's  name  ? 

B.  Lysippus ;  and  from  Sicyon  he  came. 
A.  Thy  name  ?     B.  All-potent  Oppor- 
tunity. 

A.  On  tiptoe  why  ?     B.  I  'm  ready  aye 
to  flee. 

A.  But  why  that  twofold  nature,  winged 

feet  ? 

B.  Than  heaven's  own  blasts  my  move- 

ments are  more  fleet. 

A.  The  razor  in  thy  right  hand,  tell  me 

why  ? 

B.  Sharp  is  its  edge ;  but  sharper  still 

am  I. 

A.  Why  hair  on   front?     B.   That  he 
who  meets  me  may 


182 


Hold  fast,  by  Jove.     A.   Why  bald 

behind  ?  now  say. 
B.    When  once  my  winged  feet    have 

borne  me  past, 
Man  tries  in  vain  behind    to    hold 

me  fast. 
A.  Sculptured  on  whose  account  ?     B. 

Thine,  friend ;  and  see, 
My  site's  the  temple's  porch,  that 

all  may  learn  of  me. 


TOO   EARLY   DAWN 


ANTIPATER    OF    THESSALONICA 


The  last  star  is  just  going  out 
And  the  resonant  herald  of  day 
Long  since  is  awake  and  doth  shout 
"  He  is  coming,  away  ! 


183 


"  Away  from  Chrysilla  to  tell 
Thy  beads  and  forget  not  thy  cowl." 
Go  and  crow  for  the  day  down  in  hell, 
Malevolent  fowl. 

Tithonus  is  rusty  and  old 

That  his  rosy  young  consort  doth  chase 

So  early  away  from  his  cold 

And  feeble  embrace. 


HERACLEA'S   OATH 

ASCLEPIADES 

By  thee,  my  lamp,  thrice  Heraclea  swore 

To  come  again  unto  our  playing  pleas- 
ant. 

She  comes  not;  thou,  her  god,  art 
omnipresent, 

And  there  as  here  canst  take  thy  ven- 
geance sore. 


184 


So  some  time,  when  her  play  is  at  its 

height, 
Go  out,  and  let  the  actors  lack  thy  light. 

NIGHT  AND  THE  LAMP 

MELEAGER 

O  Lamp  and  holy  Night, 
We  summoned  none  but  you 
To  chronicle  aright 
Our  troth  and  promise  true. 

"  I  '11  love  thee,"  so  she  swore, 
And  I,  "  I  will  not  quit 
Thee,  dear,  for  evermore," 
You  heard  and  treasured  it. 

Now,  Night,  she  doth  protest 
Her  oath  was  for  the  day, 
And,  Lamp,  thou  knowest  best 
How  mine  she  laughs  away. 


I8S 


A   LETTER   FROM   EPHESUS 

RUFINUS 

My  darling  Elpis,  joy  abide  with  thee, 
If  joy  be  joy  when  thou  art  far  from  me ; 
For,  by  thy  eyes,  all  this  great  city  gay 
To  me  's  a  hermitage  by  night  and  day, 
Either  on  lone  Coressus  hill  I  weep 
Or  in   Great    Dian's  church  my  vigil 

keep. 
To-morrow  home  again  j  straight  to  my 

light 

I  '11  fly  :  till  then  a  thousand  times  good- 
night. 

EROS 

ALCMUS 

I  hate  the  lazy  archer  boy, 

That  makes  my  tethered  heart  his  toy, 


1 86 


Nor  climbs  to  find  a  stag. 
What  glory,  if  a  god  strike  dead 
A  mortal  weak  ?  no  antlered  head 
Is  mine  to  show  and  brag. 

PRESENT   DELIGHT 

RUFINUS 

Let  us  bathe ;  on  our  brows  let  us  twine 

The  roses  and  sup. 
No  water  to  temper  the  wine, 

And  larger  the  cup. 

For  delight  is  a  treasure  that  ends, 

And  when  it  is  past, 
Old  age  and  the  parting  from  friends 

And  death  at  the  last. 


EUROPE'S   KISS 

RUFINUS 

The  kiss  of  Europe  were  sweet  did  it 

light  on  the  brink 
Of  the  mouth  for  a  moment,  yea  sweet 

did  it  stoop  once  to  drink : 
But  it  waits  not  to  sip  from  the  bank ; 

the  soul's  passage  it  stops, 
And  from  all  the  far  fountains  that  feed 

her  it  drains  the  last  drops. 


A   MOONLIGHT   CHASE 

MARCUS    ARGENTARIUS 

O  little  golden-horned  moon, 
And  all  the  stars  that  thee  escort, 
Sink  not  into  the  sea  too  soon, 
But  shine  to-night  upon  our  sport. 


1 88 


Now  for  a  week  and  up  the  wind 
I  run  Ariste's  scented  track, 
But  ever  that  enchanted  hind 
Doth  fly  before  my  foolish  pack. 

Kypris  to-night  her  bugle  sounds, 
And  calls  her  pack  that  hunteth  well, 
The  forty  magic  silver  hounds ; 
And  surely  they  will  break  the  spell. 

TO   VENUS   MARINA 

GAITALIKES 

These  I  lay  upon  thy  table, 

Little  cakes  ;  I  am  not  able 

Richer  gifts  to  bring  to  thee, 

Queen  of  the  church  by  the  Ionian  Sea. 

When  to-morrow  there  I  'm  tossing, 
Hear  my  prayer  and  speed  the  crossing; 


189 


For  I  hurry  home  to  rest 

Again  in  Greece  on  Idothea's  breast. 

Send  us  aye  fair  wind  and  weather 
Love  and  me,  who  sail  together. 
Not  on  this  wild  shore  alone, 
There  in  her  chamber  too  is  set  thy 
throne. 


THE    PROPER  AGE 

HONESTUS 

My  wife  I  would  nor  pity  nor  revere. 
Neither  a  school-girl  nor  a  virgin  sere, 
Neither  sour  grape  nor  raisin  will  I  wed, 
But  her  ripe  summer's  gale  shall  guide 
me  to  her  bed. 


190 


A   CRUEL   MISTRESS 

CALLIMACHUS 

Warm  be  thy  bed,   K  on  op  ion,  as  thy 

lover's, 
Whom  only  night  with  her  cold  mantle 

covers ; 
Thy  pillow  soft  as  this  thy  threshold 

stone, 
Thy  lullaby  that   the  shrill  wind  doth 

moan. 
Thou    hast    no    drop  of  pity,   not  the 

merest 
Droplet;  the  neighbours  call  me  in, thou 

hearest, 
But  thou  —  one  day  thou  'It  think  on 

this ;  the  gray 
Remembrances  are  not  so  far  away. 


191 


A   GENUINE   PASSION 

MELEAGER 

"Come   away,"   cries  my  soul,  "from 

thy  Heliodore, 
My  old  tears  are  not  dry,  my  old  wounds 

are  still  sore." 
Yea  I  hear  and  I  cannot ;  she  too  bids 

"  away," 
But  more  wanton  her  kisses  the  more 

I  delay. 

TO   KYDILLA 

MELEAGER 

Each  time  I  come  my  head  to  lay 

Upon  thy  bosom  bright, 
Whether  I  face  the  accusing  day 

Or  venture  through  the  night, 


192 


I  know  I  tread  a  fearful  track 

Along  a  precipice ; 
Staking  my  life,  behind  my  back 

I  blindly  cast  the  dice. 

What  's    that  to  me  ?    my   heart   is 

bold; 

And  bolder  is  my  guide. 
When  steadfast  Love  the  rope  doth 

hold, 
I  risk  the  dreadest  stride. 


SUNNY   HAIR 

UNKNOWN 

Dear,  whether  like  the  starling's  wing 

you  wear, 
Or   like    the    pheasant's    breast     your 

queenly  hair, 


193 


It  's  just  as  full  of  sunshine ;  Love  will 

stay 
Warm  still  amongst  it  when  you  wear  it 

gray. 


MELISSA 


I 


RUFINUS 

Where  's  all  thy  glory  gone,  Melissa, 

where 
The  gems  that  glowed  in  thy  illustrious 

hair  ? 
Where  is  thy  haughty  glance,  thy  neck 

erect, 
Where  is  the  gold  that  thy  proud  ankles 

decked  ? 
Cheap  gilt  in  thin  locks,  round  thy  feet 

a  wreath 
Of  tawdry  rags ;  so  rich  whores  dress  for 

death. 


194 


BRAMBLES   AND    ROSES 

RUFINUS 

Now  black-beard  says  "  Good  morning." 

Where  the  spell 
Of  rosy    cheeks   like    marble    polished 

well  ? 
Now  cropped-hair  courts  me.     Where 

are  all  the  curls 
Strayed   on   his   neck  as  haughty  as  a 

girl's  ? 
No  thanks !    though  both  have  thorns, 

they  're  different  quite, 
Brambles  that  catch  and  roses  that  invite. 

LOVE   MAY  BE   BOUGHT 

ANTIPATER    OF    THESSALONICA 

All  Homer  says  is  gospel  truth,  but  this 
Most  true,  that  Aphrodite  golden  is. 


195 


For  bring  the  guinea,  and  the  porter  tall 
And  savage  Hector  vanish  one  and  all ; 
But  come  without  it,  Hector's  heads  are 

three. 
Thus  wealth  oppresses  virtuous  poverty  ! 

Ages    there  were  of  silver,  brass,  and 

gold : 
Love  lived  through  all,  and,  now  he  's 

wise  and  old, 

Impartial  grown  the  golden  senator 
He  low  salutes,  the  brazen  man  of  war 
He  kisses,  and  the  silver  city  man 
He  never  cuts.     Before  our  race  began 
Things  were  the  same ;  Zeus  came  to 

Danae 
Not  gold,  but  with  a  hundred  guinea  fee. 


196 


DANAE'S   LOVER 

PARMENION 

In  gold  thou  didst  thy  godhead's  form 

dissemble 

Coming  to  Danae's  bed, 
That  she,  poor  soul,  might  hug  the  gift, 

not  tremble 
Before  thy  presence  dread. 


DINING   OUT 

NICARCHUS 

"  You  must  stop  this  dining  out," 
Says  the  doctor.     "  No,  sir  ! 
Just  as  steady  with  the  gout 
To  my  grave  I  '11  go,  sir. 
All  the  lodge  will  come  to  bear 
Home  their  fellow  sinner. 


197 


Never  once  again,  I  swear, 
Will  I  miss  a  dinner." 


LOVE'S   DANGERS 


Love's  corsairs,  Crocodile  and  Shark, 
Are  hovering  round  the  harbour.     Mark 
Me  right,  ye  Samian  youth  ;  the  alarm 
I  've  sounded  loud,  but  ere  ye  arm 
To  sail  and  fight  them  well  bethink  ye  ; 
They  '11  gulp  ye  down  if  once  they  sink 
ye. 


HE.  "  Good  evening."  SHE. 
evening."  HE.  "And 
your  name  ?  " 


«  Good 
what   is 


198 


SHE.   «  What  is  yours  ?"    HE.  "Don't 

be  curious."     SHE.  "  Well  you  are 

the  same." 
HE.    "  Have   you   any    appointment  ? " 

SHE.  "  With  who  likes  my  face." 
HE.  "  Will  you  not  come  to  dinner  to- 
night in  that  case  ?  " 
SHE.    "  If  you  like."      HE.    "  Do  you 

mind  my  enquiring  the  price  ? " 
SHE.    "  O    thanks !     I    don't    bargain." 

HE.    "That    's    strange!"      SHE. 

"If  I  'm  nice, 
You  can  give  me  a  present  to-morrow." 

HE.  «  Most  fair !  " 
SHE.    "  And   where  are   we  to  dine  ? " 

HE.    "  I  '11  send   round  for  you." 

SHE.  "There 
Is  my  house;  mark  it  well."    HE.  "At 

what  hour  shall  we  say  ?  " 
SHE.  "When   you  will."     HE.  "Why 

not  now  ?  "     SHE.    "  Then  please 

show  me  the  way." 


199 


¥*« 


MATURE   BEAUTY 

RUFINUS 

Her  eyes  are  stars  of  gold  set  in  a  globe 
of  crystal. 

Her  mouth  is  sweeter  than  a  rose ;  red- 
der than  the  rose  leaves  are  her  lips. 

Her  neck  is  a  round  tower  of  marble; 
her  breasts  are  carved  from  the  stone 
of  Pares. 

Her  feet  are  like  the  feet  of  Thetis: 
they  are  whiter  than  fine  silver. 

But  the  autumn  has  powdered  her  head ; 
the  thistle-down  glistens  in  her  hair. 

Shall  I  not  reap  the  corn  because  it  is 
white  ? 

Shall  I  consider  the  glory  of  its  spring- 
tide? 


200 


POVERTY  AND   LOVE 


UNKNOWN 


Poverty  is  a  very  bitter  mate, 

A  bitterer  Desire. 
Easy  to  shiver  by  a  coal-less  grate ; 

But  hard  to  bear  the  fire. 


WHO   AND   WHEN? 

UNKNOWN 

I  loved,  I  kissed,  she  kissed  me  back  and 

love  was  in  her  kiss ; 
But  who  loved   whom,  and  when    and 

why  —  ask  Love  to  tell  you  this. 


2O I 


THE   DEATH   OF   FAITH 


DIOSCORJDES 


True  Love,  false  Faith,  together  linked 


we. 


Plighting  Sosipater  to  Arsinoe. 

Dead  now  is  Faith,  since  she  's  untrue, 

but  Love 
Lives  yet  and  calls  for  vengeance  from 

above. 

Let  Hymen  chant  as  for  one  newly  dead  ; 
For  Faith  is  laid  out  on  her  marriage  bed. 

INDISCRETION 

DIOSCORIDES 

Oh  restless  rosy  portals 
My  thirsting  soul  that  waste ! 
Oh  drink  of  the  immortals, 
That  maddens  when  I  taste ! 


202 


Beneath  her  thick  brows  flashes 
The  lightning  of  her  eyes, 
And  in  their  fine-spun  lashes 
My  heart  entangled  lies. 

Oh  milky  founts  redundant 
With  Love  on  sister  hills, 
Sweeter  than  all  the  abundant 
Scent  that  the  spring  distils ! 

Peace  !  fool,  that  dost  her  glories 
To  all  the  town  betray. 
The  reeds  that  would  tell  stories 
Are  sighing  still  to-day. 


A   COSTLY  SIEGE 

ARCHIAS 

He  will  take  —  the  little  tender 
Captain  —  this  my  strong  position ; 


203 


But  he  shall  ere  I  surrender 
Finish  all  his  ammunition. 

Fear  not,  bachelors,  his  army 
From  my  siege  advancing  prouder, 
His  artillery  cannot  harm  ye ; 
That  has  neither  shot  nor  powder. 


AN   APPEAL 

MELEAGER 

O  Love,  be  kinder, 

Or  some  day 

Alighting  with  thy  cruel  torch 
Again  my  singed  soul  to  scorch 

Thou  wilt  not  find  her. 
She  too  has  wings  to  fly  away. 


204 


AN  IDLE   RACE 

ARCHIAS 

You  bade  me  run  from  Love ; 

I  'm  out  of  breath 
With  running ;  close  above 

He  hovereth. 


TO    ZEUS 

ASCLEPIADES 

Snow,  hail,  turn  day  to  night  and  night 

to  day, 
Thunder  and  wring  from  thy  black  robe 

the  rain. 
Slay  me,  I  '11  rest ;  but  if  thou  spare  to 

slay, 
Through  worse  I  '11  run  unto  her  door 

again. 


205 


For  the  God  calls  at  whose  command 

of  old 
The  brazen  wall  thou  clovest  turned  to 

gold. 


TO   PRODIKfc 

RUFINUS 

To-day  my  Prodike  finding  alone, 

I  clasped  her  knees  and  thus  I  made  my 

moan : 
"  Oh  save  a  poor  man  sick  to  death,  and 

stay 
His  ebbing   life  that  almost  now  hath 

ceased." 
She     listening     wept,    but    wiped     her 

tears  away, 
And  with  her  tender  hands  mine  own 

released. 


206 


SUCCESSFUL    BAIT 


Graceless  good  looks 
Get  many  a  rise, 
Like  taking  flies 
With  broken  hooks. 


THE   BEAUTY   OF   MAEONIS 

RUFINUS 


Pallas  and  Hera  with  the  golden  shoes 
Saw  Maeonis  and  from  their  hearts  cried 

out, 
"  We  '11  not  disrobe  again  ;  for  twice  to 

lose 
A  shepherd's  prize  were  not  defeat  but 

rout." 


207 


£^ 


WOMAN,  WINE,  AND   SONG 

RUFINUS 

Well  have  they  said  it  that  life  is  delight ; 

get  away,  all  ye  worries. 
Man  doth  but  live   for  a  span ;    from 

nothing  to  nothing  he  hurries. 
Women  and  wine  and  the  dance,  and  the 

flowers  our  heads  are  adorning, 
They  are   the  gifts   of  to-night;    who 

knoweth  the  secrets  of  morning  ? 


A  SOUL  ALMOST  LOST 


PLATO 


The  poor  imprisoned  soul  in  me 
Came  running  when  we  kissed 

Up  to  the  gate  to  cross  to  thee 
And  by  a  moment  missed. 


208 


RHODOKLEIA   BATHING 

RUFINUS 

Ye  spirits  of  the  stream, 

I  knew  not  —  who  could  dream  ?  — 
That  Kytherea  loves  its  eddies  cool, 
And  I  should  find  her  by  my  favourite 
pool 

Letting  her  lustred  hair 

Run  down  her  shoulders  bare. 

"  Have  mercy  on  these  mortal  eyes,  my 

queen, 
That  thy  immortal  nakedness  have  seen." 

Hush  !  it  can  not  be  she. 

'T  is  only  Rhodokle, 
That  naked  Kypris  of  her  loveliness 
Stripped,  and  put  on  herself  that  dazzling 

dress. 


209 


A   TEST 

PLATO 

My  apple  catch ;  if  from  thy  heart 
Thou  kissest,  then  give  me  a  part 

Of  it  and  of  thy  day ; 
But  if  't  is  but  thy  lips  that  kiss, 
Then  keep  it  whole  to  teach  thee  this, 

How  rosy  cheeks  decay. 


A   PEACH 

PLATO 

I  am  the  peach  one  threw  to  thee,  that 
loves  thee ;  grant  his  boon. 

The  bloom  upon  my  cheeks  and  thine 
shall  fade  away  too  soon. 


2IO 


LOVE   NOW 

Thou  keepest  well  thy  maidenhead. 
What  will  it  serve  thee  when  thou  'it 

dead, 

When  they  have  laid  thee  in  the  tomb, 
No  lover  in  that  narrow  room  ? 
Here  in  the  living  air  above 
Is  all  the  glorious  joy  of  love. 
There  dust  and  ashes  we  will  lie, 
I  and  thy  proud  virginity. 


Roses  in  your  basket, 
And  your  cheeks  are  rosy, 
Redder  when  I  ask  it 
"  Which  do  you  sell, 


211 


Yourself  or  the  posy 
Or  both  as  well  ? " 


LOVE'S   SCOURGE 


Melissias  will  not  avow  she  smarts, 

Tho'  stuck  all  over  with  the  tell-tale 
darts. 

Look  how  she  hastes,  then  stops  love- 
struck;  in  snatches 

She  draws  her  breath;  look  at  Love's 
purple  scratches 

Beneath  her  eyes.  Scourge  her,  dear 
Love,  till  spurts 

The  blood,  or  she  will  never  cry  "  It 
hurts." 


212 


TO   LOVE 

RUFINUS 

If  thou  canst  not  find  coals  enough  to 
unfreeze 

This  statue  too, 

Put  out,  or  somewhat  shift  the  brazier, 
please : 

I  'm  roasted  through. 

TRUE   LOVE 

MARCUS    ARGENTARIUS 

He  loveth  not  whose  cool  judicious  eyes 
Mark  down  some  brilliant  beauty  for  his 

prize. 

But  he  who  stricken  by  a  homely  face 
Feels  his  wild  blood    all    through    him 

quicker  race. 


213 


He  loves,  he  burns ;  for  beauty  any  fool 
Can  pine,  who  learned   its   alphabet   at 
school. 


THE  WIND   AND    THE    ROSE 

UNKNOWN 

O  would  I  were  the  cool  wind  that  's 

blowing  from  the  sea, 
That  thou  mightst  bare  thy  bosom  and 

take  me  in  to  thee. 

O  would  I  were  the  pink  rose  beside  thy 

path  doth  grow, 
And    thou    wouldst    pluck   me    for  thy 

breasts  that  are  as  white  as  snow 


END    OF    VOLUME    I. 


m 


214 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


KtU  U  COL 

.  JUN3   is; 

REC'O  COL  LIB. 

APR   8W4 


U  COL  LIB. 

m/j  is 

3    1975 


Book  Slip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)428U 


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